><g!>««H 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


SELECTED   READINGS 


Uniform  with  this  Volume 


THE  ART  OF  SPEECH  AND  DE- 
PORTMENT. By  Anna  Morgan. 
12rao.     $1.50  we^ 


A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  Publishers 


SELECTED 

READ  I NGS 

DESIGNED   TO    IMPART    TO    THE    STUDENT 

AN  APPRECIATION   OF  LITERATURE 

IN   ITS   WIDER   SENSE 

COMPILED    BY 

ANNA   MORGAN 

AUTHOR    OF 

"the  art  of  speech  and  deportment'* 

AND    "an    hour    with    DELSARTe" 

{FOURTH  EDITION) 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &   CO. 

1918 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1909 


Published  May,  1909 


W.  F.  HALL  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


MS2.S 


^In^cribfH 


TO 

jHartan,  ^tia,  anU  3^c66te 

AND    TO    i\IY    MANY    OTHER    ACTUAL    AND    WOULD-BE 

PUPILS    WHO    ARE    INTERESTED    IN    THE 

ART    OF    READING    WELL 


CONTENTS 


Pagk 

Index  to  Titles xiii 

Index  to  Authors xix 

I  — PROSE   SELECTIONS 

The  Drama Richard  Watson  Gilder  25 

Pasquale's  Picture Henry  B.  Fuller  26 

Their  Dear  Little  Ghost      Elia  W.  Peattie  32 

Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip Hamlin  Garland  37 

A  Red-haired  Cupid Henry  Wallace  Phillips  42 

The  Making  of  a  Comedienne      .    .    .      Clara  E.  Latighlin  50 

A  Social  Promoter Wilbur  D.  Nesbit  58 

A  Tale  of  Old  Madrid F.  Marion  Crawford  63 

The  Gift  of  the  Magi 0.  Henry  67 

The  Courtin'  of  T'nowhead's  Bell J.  M.  Barrie  72 

The  Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows  .    .  Rudyard  Kipling  77 

How  Much  Land  Does  A  Man  Require?  .    .    .      Leo  Tolstoi  80 

Her  First  Appearance Richard  Harding  Davis  86 

A  Passion  in  the  Desert Honore  de  Balzac  90 

Frederick  op  the  Alberighi  and  his  Falcon      Boccaccio  94 

DoMiNi's  Triumph Robert  Hichens  97 

The  Man  without  a  Country   .    .    .      Edward  Everett  Hale  104 

Two  Letters  and  Two  Telegrams      ....     Clyde  Fitch  113 

A  Lover  of  Music Henry  Van  Dyke  115 

Fleas  will  be  Fleas Ellis  Parker  Butler  119 

Uncle  Remus  on  an  Electric  Car     .     Joel  Chandler  Harris  125 

A  Speech  of  Lincoln's 128 

Selections  from  the  Bible 130 

II  — MONOLOGUES 

Her  Husband's  Dinner  Party      .    .  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke  137 

Her  First  Call  on  the  Butcher    .    .    .     May  Isabel  Fisk  141 
Buying  her  Husband  a  Christmas  Present 

Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  143 

Abbie's  Accounts       Tudor  Jenks  146 

'TwiXT  Cup  and  Llp      Anonymous  149 

Wives  in  a  Social  Game Anonymous  151 


viii  CONTENTS 

III  _  POETRY 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Page 

Hamlet's  Instruction  to  the  Players      157 

Hamlet's  Declaration  of  Friendship 158 

Othello's  Apology 158 

Mercutio's  Description  of  Queen  Mab 160 

The  Seven  Ages IGl 

The  Motley  Fool      162 

Benedick's  Soliloquy 163 

Life's  Revels      163 

Juliet's  Wooing  op  the  Night 164 

The  Potion  Scene 168 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

Up  at  a  Villa  —  Down  in  the  City 170 

summum  bonum 173 

A  Tale 173 

One  Way  of  Love 176 

Youth  and  Art      177 

Confessions      179 

Time's  Revenges 180 

Porphyria's  Lover 182 

My  Last  Duchess 183 

RUB  YARD   KIPLING 

Gentlemen-Rankers 185 

Chant-Pagan 186 

My  Rival      188 

Boots 190 

EUGENE  FIELD 

The  Dream-Ship 191 

The  Limitations  of  Youth 192- 

Long  Ago 193 

JAMES    WHIT  COMB  RILEY 

The  Old  Man  and  Jim 194 

Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's 196 

The  Life  Lesson 197 


CONTENTS  IX 


BEN  KING 

Page 

Jane  Jones       198 

She  Does  Not  Hear 199 

If  I  C-\N  Be  by  Her 199 

But  Then 200 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

Accountability 201 

When  Malindy  Sings 202 

Angelina 204 

In  the  Mornin'       205 

Encouragement      207 

A  Coquette  Conquered 208 

The  Tiger  Lily      Joaquin  Miller  209 

The  Bravest  Battle Joaquin  Miller  211 

The  Fool's  Prayer Edward  Rowland  Sill  212 

OppoRTtJNiTY Edward  Rowland  Sill  213 

Opportunity John  James  Ingalls  214 

"  Sweet-Thing  "  Jane John  Vance  Cheney  214 

The  Happiest  Heart John  Vance  Cheney  215 

El  Gaming  Real -.    .    .    .     John  S.  M'Groarty  215 

A  Theme       Richard  Watson  Gilder  216 

The  Two  Mysteries      Mary  Mapes  Dodge  21G 

The  Cheer  of  Those  who  Speak  English       Wallace  Rice  217 

Nasturchums Wilbur  D.  Nesbit  219 

With  a  Posy  from  Shottery     ....        Wilbur  D.  Nesbit  220 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe      Edwin  Markham  221 

De  Habitant William  Henry  Drummond  223 

My  Ships Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  225 

Carcassonne Trans,  by  M.  E.  W.  Sherwood  22G 

"One,  Two,  Three" H.  C.  Bunner  228 

Provencal  Lovers Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  229 

My  Angel  and  I Blanche  Fearing  230 

The  Shadow  Child Harriet  Monroe  232 

The  Whole  Creation  Groaneth  ....     S.  Weir  Mitchell  233 

The  Lute  Player William  Watson  234 

The  Day  ls  Done Henry  W.  Longfellow  235 

Marguerite      John  G.  Whittier  236 

Bill  and  Joe Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  238 

Auf  Wiedersehen James  Russell  Lowell  24P 


X  CONTENTS 

Page 

Identity Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  241 

Ulysses Alfred  Tennyson  241 

The  First  Quarrel Alfred  Tennyson  243 

The  Daffodils William  Wordsworth  246 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Leigh  Hunt  247 

Cupid  Swallowed Leigh  Hunt  247 

O  Captain  !     My  Captain  ! Walt  Whitman  248 

A  Thing  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy  Forever  .    .    .     John  Keats  249 

Good-night Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  249 

Verses  on  a  Cat Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  250 

Drink  to  me  Only  with  Thine  Eyes    Trans,  by  Ben  Jonson  251 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night      Robert  Burns  251 

The  Child  Musician Austin  Dobson  253 

Somewhere       Helen  Hinsdale  Rich  254 

On  a  Gray  Birthday John  Marshall  254 

America Samuel  F.  Smith  255 

The  Star-spangled  Banner Francis  Scott  Key  256 

Home,  Sweet  Home Johi  Howard  Payne  257 

Self-dependence Matthew  Arnold  258 

To  Shakespeare's  Love Edward  J.  McPhelim  259 

Cleopatra W.W.  Story  259 

The  Ballad  op  Reading  Gaol      Oscar  Wilde  263 

IV— VERSE 

Old  Chums Alice  Gary  271 

The  Old  Coat George  Baker  272 

The  Dead  Pussy  Cat Anonymous  273 

Gran'ma  Al'us  Does A.  H.  Poe  274 

Talkin'  'bout  Trouble Carrie  Jacobs-Bond  275 

The  Unexpected Will  J.  Lampion  277 

Out  of  Arcadia Harry  Romaine  277 

Mammy's  Lullaby Strickland  W.  Gillilan  278 

Kitty  of  Coleraine      Charles  Datoson  Shanly  279 

The  Little  Church  round  the  Corner     .  A.  E.  Lancaster  280 

Anne  Hathaway Anonymous  281 

The  Gate      Bessie  Cahn  282 

"  Spacl^lly  Jim  " Bessie  Morgan  282 

A  Similar  Case Anonymous  283 

The  Usual  Way Anonymous  284 

The  Faithful  Lovers Anonymous  285 

Platonic William  B.  Terrett  286 

Life Thomas  Shelley  Sutton  288 


CONTENTS  XI 

Page 

She  Liked  him  Rale  Weel Andrew  Wauless  2S8 

The  Hindoo's  Paradise AnonymoTxs  289 

A  Dear  Little  Goose      Anonymous  290 

JL^ttie's  Wants  and  Wishes Grace  Gordon  291 

V— SELECTIONS 

The  Catechist Anonymous  295 

A  Boy's  Composition  on  Columbus      ....     Anonymous  295 

Madame  Eef        Anonymous  296 

An  Italian's  Views  on  the  Labor  Question  .    .      Joe  Kerr  297 

The  Meeting  of  the  Clabberhuses    .    .    Sam  Walter  Foss  298 

A  Club  Meeting  op  Solomon's  Wives    .    .     Wallace  Irwin  300 

When  the  Minister  Comes  to  Tea    Joseph  Crosby  Lincoln  301 

Aunt  'Mandy Joseph  Crosby  Lincoln  302 

A  Study  in  Nerves       Anonymous  303 

Love  in  a  Balloon Litchfield  Moseley  305 

In  the  Pantry Mabel  Dixon  311 

VI  — SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES 

Napoleon    and   a    Strange    Lady    (From    "The    Man    of 

Destiny") G.  Bernard  Shaw  315 

Nature  and  Philosophy Anthony  Hope  329 

Yes  and  No Aria  Bates  333 

Parried Tudor  Jenks  337 

At  the  Door Tudor  Jenks  341 

At  the  Ferry Anonymous  344 

Come  Here  !      Anonymous  346 

Secrets  of  the  Heart Austin  Dobson  348 

Tu  Quoque Austin  Dobson  350 

Scene  from  "Paola  and  Francesca"  .    .    .     Stephen  Phillips  351 

Brutus  and  Cassius  (From  "Julius  Csesar") .    .     Shakespeare  357 

Scene  from  "As  You  Like  It" Shakespeare  360 

Mrs.   Page  and  Mrs.   Ford   (From   "The  Merry  Wives  of 

Windsor")      Shakespeare  362 

Scene  from  "Two  Gentlemen  OF  Verona"  .    .     Shakespeare  364 

Dialogue  from  "Twelfth  Night" Shakespeare  368 

Scene  from  "Coriolanus" Shakespeare  371 

Scene  from  "  King  John  "      Shakespeare  374 

Dialogue  from  "The  Merchant  of  Venice".    .     Shakespeare  377 
3airey  Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig  (From  "Martin  Chuzzlewit") 

Charles  Dickens  382 

Little  Em'ly  (From  "David  Copperfield")      Charles  Dickens  386 


Xil  CONTENTS 

Page 

Dialogue  from  "David  Copperfield"    .    .    .    Charles  Dickens  389 

Dialogue  from  "Nicholas  Nickleby"  .    .    .    Charles  Dickens  393 

Dialogue  from  "The  Pickwick  Papers"  .    .    Charles  Dickens  400 

Scene  from  "The  Mighty  Dollar"   .    .    .  Benjamin  E.  Woolf  406 
Sir    Peter    and    Lady    Teazle    (From    "The    School    for 

Scandal") Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  409 

Scene  from  "The  Rivals".    .    .    .    Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  412 
Dialogue  from   "The  Critic   of  the  School  for  Wives" 

Holier  e  415 

Selections  from  "The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii"    Bulwer-Lyiton  419 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


PAGE 

Abbie's  Accounts.  Tudor 
Jeyiks 146 

Abou  Ben  Adhem.  Leigh 
Hunt 247 

Accountability.  Paul  Lau- 
rence Dunbar      201 

America.     Samuel  F.  Smith    255 

Angel  and  I,  My.  Blanche 
Fearing 230 

Angelina.  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar 204 

Anne  Hathaway.  Anony- 
mous     281 

Arcadia,  Out  of.  Harry 
Romaine      277 

"As  You  Like  It,"  Selection 
from  (The  Seven  Ages). 
Shakespeare 161 

"As  You  Like  It,"  Selection 
from  (The  Motley  Fool). 
Shakespeare 162 

"As  You  Like  It,"  Selection 
from  (Act  IV,  Scene  1) 
Shakespeare 360 

Auf  Wicdersehen.  James 
Russell  Lowell 240 

Aunt  'Mandy.  Joseph 
Crosby  Lincoln 302 

Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol, 
The.     Oscar  Wilde     ...     263 

Benedick's  Soliloquy  on 
Love.     Shakespeare  ...      163 

Bible,  Selections  from  the   .      130 

Bill  and  Joe.  Oliver  Wen- 
dell Holmes 23S 

Boots.     Rudyard  Kipling    .      190 

Bravest  Battle,  The.  Joa- 
quin  Miller 211 

Brutus  and  Cassius,  Dia- 
logue between.  Stiake- 
speare 357 

But  Then.     Ben  King      .    .     200 


PAGE 

Buying  her  Husband  a 
Christmas  Present.  Ruth 
McEnery  Stuurt     ....     143 

Camino  Real,  EI.  John  S. 
M'Groarty 215 

Captain  !    My  Captain  !    O. 

Walt  Whitman    .    .    ..    .     248 

Carcassonne.  M.  E.  W. 
Sherwood  (Tx&i\s.)      .    .    .     226 

Catechist,  The.    Anonymou.'^    295 

Chant-Pagan.  Rudyard 
Kipling 186 

Cheer  of  Those  Who  Speak 
English,  The.  Wallace 
Rice 217 

Child  Musician,  The.  Aus- 
tin Dobson 253 

Cleopatra.     W.  W.  Story     .     259 

Club  Meeting  of  Solomon's 
Wives,  A.     Wallace  Irwin     300 

Columbus,  A  Boy's  Compo- 
sition on.     Anonymous     .     295 

"Come  Here!"    Anonymous     346 

Confessions.  Robert  Brown- 
ing     179 

Coquette  Conquered,  A. 
Paul   Laurence  Dunbar   .     208 

"Coriolanus,"  Selection  from 
(Act  I,  Scene  3).  Shake- 
speare   371 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night, 
The.     Robert  Burns  ...     251 

Courtin'  of  T 'now head's 
Bell,  The.    J.  M.  Barrie  .       72 

"Critic  of  the  School  for 
Wives,  The,"  Dialogue 
from.     Molikre 415 

Cup  and  Lip,  'Twixt. 
Anonymotis 149 

Cupid  Swallowed.  Leigh 
Hunt 247 


xui 


XIV 


INDEX   TO   TITLES 


PAGE 

Daffodils,  The.  William 
Wordsworth 246 

"Da\dd  Coppei-field,"  Selec- 
tion from  (Little  Em'ly). 
Charles  Dickens      ....     386 

"Davad  Copperfield,"  Selec- 
tion from  (Miss  Betsey, 
David,  Mr.  Dick,  and  the 
Murdstones).  Charles 
Dickens 389 

Day  is  Done,  The.     Henry 

W.  Longfellow 235 

Dead  Pussy  Cat,  The. 
Anonymous 273 

Dear  Little  Ghost,  Their. 
Elia  W.  Peattie      ....       32 

Dear  Little  Goose,  A.  Anon- 
ymous       290 

Domini's  Triumph.  Robert 
Hichens 97 

Door,  At  the.     Tudor  Jenks    341 

Drama,  The.  Richard  Wat- 
son Gilder 25 

Dream-sliip,  The.  Eugene 
Field .      191 

Drink  to  Me  Only  with 
Thine  Eyes.  Ben  Jonson 
(Trans.) 251 

Encouragement.  Paul 
Laurence  Dunbar   ....     207 

Faithful  Lovers,  The. 
Anonymous 285 

"Felicity,"  Selection  from 
(The  Making  of  a  Comedi- 
enne).   Clara  E.  Laughlin       50 

Ferry,  At  the.    Anonymous      344 

First  Appearance,  Her. 
Richard  Harding  Davis     .       86 

First  Call  on  the  Butcher, 
Her.    May  Isabel  Fisk     .      141 

First  Quarrel,  The.  Alfred 
Tennyson 243 

Fleas  will  be  Fleas.  Ellis 
Parker  Butler 119 

Fool's  Prayer,  The.  Edward 
Rowland  Sill 212 

Frederick  of  the  Alberighi 
and  his  Falcon.    Boccaccio      94 

Gamp,  Sairey,  and  Betsey 
Prig,  Dialogue  between. 
Charles  Dickens      ....     382 


97 


77 
282 


"Garden  of  Allah,  The," 
Selection  from  (Domini's 
Triumph).  Robert  Hich- 
ens     

Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sor- 
rows, The.  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling   

Gate,  The.    Bessie  Cahn  .    . 

Gentlemen-Rankers.  Rud- 
yard Kipling 185 

Gift  of  the  Magi,  The.  O. 
Henry      67 

Good-night.  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley 249 

Gran'ma  Al'us  Does.  A.  H. 
Poe 274 

Gray  Birthday,  On  a.  John 
Marshall 254 

Habitant,     De.       William 

Henry  Drummond  .  .  .  223 
Hamlet's      Declaration      of 

Friendship.  Shakespeare  158 
Hamlet's  Instruction  to  the 

Players.  Shakespeare  .  .  15? 
Happiest  Heart,  The.    John 

Vance  Cheney 215 

Hindoo's      Paradise,      The. 

Anonymous 289 

Home,  Sweet  Home.     John 

Howard  Payne 257 

How  Much  Land  does  a  Man 

Require?  Leo  Tolstoi  .  .  80 
Husband's     Dinner    Party, 

Her.     Majorie   Benton 

Cooke 137 

Identity.  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich 241 

If  I  can  be  by  Her.  Ben 
King 199 

Italian's  Views  on  the  Labor 
Question,  An.    Joe  Kerr  .     297 

Jane  Jones.  Ben  King  .  .  198 
Juliet's  Wooing  of  the  Night. 

Shakespeare 164 

"Jvilius    Csesar,"     Selection 

from    (Dialogue    between 

Brutus    and    Cassius) 

Shakespeare 357 

"King  John,"  Selection 
from  (Act  IV,  Scene  1). 
SJiakespeare 374 


INDEX   TO   TITLES 


XV 


PAGE 

Kitty  of  Coleraine.  C.  D. 
Shanhj 279 

"Last  Days  of  Pompeii, 
The,"  Selections  from. 
Bulwer  Lytton 419 

Last  Duchess,  My.  Robert 
Broioning 183 

Life.  Thomas  Shelley  Sut- 
ton     288 

Life  Lesson,  The.  James 
Whitcomh  Riley 197 

Life's  Revels.   Shakespeare  .     163 

Limitations  of  Youth,  The. 
Eugene  Field 192 

Lincoln's,  A  Speech  of.     .    .     128 

Little  Church  around  the 
Corner,  The.  A.  E.  Lan- 
caster    280 

Little  Em'ly.  Charles  Dick- 
ens    386 

Long  Ago.    Eugene  Field    .      193 

Love  in  a  Balloon.  Litch- 
field Moseley  305 

Lover  of  Music,  A.  Henry 
Van  Dyke 115 

Lute  Player,  The.  William 
Watson 234 

Madame   Eef.      Anonymous    296 

"Main  Travelled  Roads," 
Selection  from  (Mrs.  Rip- 
ley's Trip).  Hamlin  Gar- 
land            37 

Making  of  a  Comedienne, 
The.     Clara  E.  Laughlin         50 

Mammy's  Lullaby.  S.  W. 
GillUan 278 

"Man  of  Destiny,  The," 
Selection  from  (Dialogue 
between  Napoleon  and  a 
Strange  Lady).  G.  Ber- 
nard Shaw  315 

Man  ^-ith  the  Hoe,  The. 
Edwin  Markham    ....     221 

Man  without  a  Country,  The. 
Edward  Everett  Hale     .    .     104 

Marguerite.  John  G.  Whit- 
tier   

"Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  Selec- 
tion   from    (Dialogue    be-     236 
tween    Sairoy   Cramp   and 
Betsey     Prig).       Charles 
Dickens 382 


PAGE 

Mattie's  Wants  and  Wishes. 
Grace  Gordon      291 

IMeeting  of  the  Clabber- 
huses,  The.  Sam  Walter 
Foss 298 

"Merchant  of  Venice,  The," 
Selections  from.  Shake- 
speare   377 

Mercutio's  Description  of 
Queen  Mab.    Shakespeare     160 

"Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
The,"  Selection  from  (Dia- 
logue between  Mrs.  Page 
and  Mrs.  Ford).  Shake- 
speare   362 

"Mighty  Dollar,  The," 
Scene  from.  Benjamin  E. 
Woolf 406 

Minister  Comes  to  Tea, 
When  the.  Joseph  Crosby 
Lincoln 301 

"Moriah's  Mourning,"  Selec- 
tion from  (Buying  her 
Husband  a  Christmas 
Present).  Ruth  McEnery 
Stuart 143 

Mornin',  In  the.  Paul  Lau- 
rence Dunbar 205 

Motley  Fool,  The.  Shake- 
speare   162 

"Much  Ado  about  Nothing," 
Selection  from  (Benedick's 
Soliloquy  on  Love). 
Shakespeare 163 

Napoleon  and  a  Strange 
Lady,  Dialogue  between. 
G.  Bernard  Shaw    ....     315 

Nasturchums.  Wilbur  D. 
Nesbit  .    .    ._ 219 

Nature  and  Philosophy.  An- 
thony Hope 329 

"Nicholas  Nickleby,"  Selec- 
tion from  (Mrs.  Nickleby, 
Kate,  and  the  Mad  Neigh- 
bor).    Charles  Dickens     .     393 

Old  Aunt  Mary's,  Out  to. 

James  Whitcomh  Riley  .  196 
Old  Cluuns.  Alice  Gary  .  .  271 
Old     Coat,     The.       George 

Baker 272 

Old    Man    and    Jim,    The. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley      .     194 


XVI 


INDEX   TO   TITLES 


PAGE 

"One,  Two,  Tlii-ee."  H.  C. 
Bunner 228 

One  Way  of  Love.     Robert 

Browning 176 

Opportunity.  John  J.  In- 
galls 214 

Opportunity.  Edward  Row- 
land SiU  213 

"Othello,"  Selection  from 
(Othello's  Apology). 
Shakespeare 158 

Page  and  Mrs.  Ford,  Mrs., 
Dialogue  between.  Shake- 
speare   362 

"Palace  of  the  King,  In 
the,"  Selection  from  (A 
Tale  of  Old  Madrid).  F. 
Marion  Crawford  ....        63 

Pantry,  In  the.  Mabel 
Dixon 311 

"Paola  and  Francesca," 
Scene  from.  Stephen 
Phillips 351 

Parried.     Tudor  Jenks     .    .     337 

Pasquale's  Picture.  Henry 
B.  Fuller 26 

Passion    in    the    Desert,    A. 

Honore  de  Balzac   ....        90 

"Pickmck  Papers,  The," 
Selection  from  (Sam  and 
Tony  Weller).  Charles 
Dickens 400 

Platonic.  William  B.  Ter- 
rett 286 

PorphjTia's  Lover.  Robert 
Browning 182 

Posy  from  Shottery,  With  a. 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit   ....     220 

Potion  Scene,  The.  Shake- 
speare   168 

Provengal  Lovers,  The.  Ed- 
mund  Clarence  Stedinan    .     229 


Red-haired  Cupid,  A. 
Henry  Wallace  Phillips     .       42 

Ripley's,  Mrs.,  Trip.  Ham- 
lin Garland 37 

Rival,  My.    Rudyard  Kipling     188 

"Rivals,  The,"  Scene  from. 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan     412 

f  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Selec- 
tion from  (Mercutio's  De- 


PAGE 

scription  of  Queen  Mab). 
Shakespeare 160 

"Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Selec- 
tion from  (JuUet's  Wooing 
of  the  Night).  Shakespeare     164 

"Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Selec- 
tion from  (The  Potion 
Scene).     Sliakespeare    .    .      168 

"Ruling  Passion,  The,"  Se- 
lection from  (A  Lover  of 
Music).    Henry  Van  Dyke     115 

"School  for  Scandal,  The," 
Selection  from  (Sir  Peter 
and  Lady  Teazle).  Rich- 
ard Brinsley  Sheridan   .    .     409 

Secrets  of  the  Heart.  Austin 
Dobson 348 

Self-dependence.  Matthew 
Arnold 258 

Seven  Ages,  The.  Shake- 
speare   161 

Shadow  Cliild,  The.  Harriet 
Monroe 232 

Shakesyjeare's  Love,  To. 
Edward  J.  McPheiim    .    .     259 

She  does  not  Hear.  Ben 
King 199 

She  Liked  Him  Rale  Weel. 
Andrew  Waulcss    ....    '288 

Ships,  My.  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox 225 

Similar  Case,  A.  Anony- 
moxis 283 

Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sfieridan     409 

Social  Promoter,  A.  Wilbur 
D.  Nesbit 58 

Somewhere.  Helen  Hinsdale 
Rich 254 

Spacially  Jim.  Bessie  Mor- 
gan      282 

Star-spangled  Banner,  The. 
Francis  Scott  Key  ....     256 

Study  in  Nerves,  A.  Anony- 
mous     303 

Summum  Bonum.  Robert 
Browning 173 

Sweet-Thing  Jane.  John 
Vance  Cheney 214 

Tale,   A.     Robert  Browning     173 
Tale  of  Old  Madrid,  A.    F. 
Marion  Crawford  ....       63 


INDEX   TO   TITLES 


xvil 


Tallcin'  'bout  Trouble.  Car- 
rie Jacobs- Bond     ....     275 

"Tempest,  The,"  Selection 
from  (Life's  Revels). 
Shakespeare 163 

Theme,  A.  Ricfiard  Watso7i 
Gilder 216 

Thing  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy 
Forever,  A.    Joh7i  Keats  .     249 

Tiger  Lily,  The.  Joaquin 
MiUer 209 

Time's  Revenges.  Robert 
Browning 180 

Tu  Quoque.    Austin  Dobson     350 

"Twelfth  Night,"  Selection 
from  (Act  I,  Scene  5). 
Shakespeare 368 

"Two  Gentlemen  of  Ver- 
ona," Selection  from  (Act 
I,  Scene  2).     Shakespeare     364 

Two  Letters  aTid  Two  Tele- 
grams.    Clyde  Filch      .    .     113 

Two  Mysteries,  The.  Manj 
Mapcs  Dodge      216 


PAGE 

Ulysses.     Alfred  Tennyson    241 

Uncle  Remus  on  an  Electric 
Car.    Joel  Clmndler  Harris     125 

Unexpected,  The.  Will  J. 
Lampto7i 277 

Up  at  a  Villa  —  Down  in  the 
City.     Robert  Browning    .      170 

Usual  Way,  The.  Anony- 
mous     284 

Verses  on  a  Cat.  Percy 
Bysslie  Shelley 250 

When  Malindy  Sings.  Paid 
Laivrence  Dunbar  ....     202 

Whole  Creation  Groaneth, 
The.    S.  Weir  Mitchell  .    .     233 

Wives  in  a  Social  Game. 
Anonymous 151 

Yes  and  No.  Arlo  Bates   .    .     333 
Youth     and     Art.'      Robert 
Browning 177 


INDEX   TO   AUTHORS 


on 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 
Identity 

Anonymous 

'Twixt  Cup  and  Lip 
Wives  in  a  Social  Game 
The  Dead  Piissy  Cat 
Anne  Hathaway     .    . 
A  Similar  Case   .    .    . 
The  Usual  Wav      .    . 
The  Faitliful  Lovers 
The  Hindoo's  Paradise 
A  Dear  Little  Goose 
The  Catechist     .  _._  . 
A   Boy's  Composition 

Columbus  .... 
Madame  Eef  .... 
A  Study  in  Nerves  . 
At  the  Ferry  .... 
"Come  Here!"  .    .    . 

Arnold,  M.\tthew 
Self-dependence     .    . 


Baker,  George 

The  Old  Coat  ^ 

B.VLZAC,  HONORE  DE 

A  Passion  in  the  Desert  . 
Barrie,  J.  M. 

The    Courtin'    of    T'now- 

hcad's  Bell 

Bates,  Arlo 

Yes  and  No 

Boccaccio 

Frederick  of  the  Alberiglii 
and  his  Falcon  .... 
Browning,  Robert 

Up  at  a  Villa  —  Dow^l  in 
the  City  .... 

Sumnvum  Bonum  . 

A  Tale 

One  Way  of  Love 

Youth  and  Art  .    . 

Confessions     .    .    . 

Time's  Revenges    . 


241 

149 
151 
273 

281 
283 
284 
285 
289 
290 
295 

295 
296 
303 
344 
346 

258 


272 
90 

72 
333 

94 


170 
173 
173 
176 
177 
179 
ISO 


PAGE 

182 
183 


228 


Porphyria's  Lover     .    . 

My  Last  Duchess  .    .    . 
Bunner,  H.  C. 

"One,  Two,  Three"  .    . 
Burns,  Robert 

The     Cotter's     Saturday 

Night 251 

Butler,  Ellis  Parker 

Fleas  will  be  Fleas    ...     119 

Cahn,  Bessie 

The  Gate 282 

Cary,  Alice 

Old  Chums 271 

Cheney,  John  Vance 

Sweet-Thing  Jane      .    .    . 

The  Happiest  Heart      .    . 
Cooke,  Majorie  Benton 

Her     Husband's     Dinner 

Party 

Crawford,  F.  Marion 

A  Tale  of  Old  Madrid  .    . 


214 
215 


137 


63 


Davis,  Richard  Harding 

Her  First  Appearance  .    .       86 
Dickens,  Charles 

Sairey  Gamp  and  Betsey 
Prig  (From  "Martin 
Chuzzlewit")      ....     392 

Little    Em'ly    (From 

"David     Copperfield")     386 

Dialogue  from  "David 
Copperfield"       ..  •    •    ■     389 

Dialogue  from  "Nicholas 
Nickleby" 393 

Dialogue  from  "The  Pick- 
wick Papers"     ....     400 
Dixon,  Mabel 

In  the  Pantry 311 

DoBsoN,  Austin 

The  Child  Musician   ...     253 

Secrets  of  the  Heart      .    .     348 

Tu  Quoque 350 


XLX 


XX 


INDEX  TO   AUTHORS 


Dodge,  Mary  Mapes 

The  Two  Mysteries    ...  216 

Drumsiond,  William  Henry 

De  Habitant 223 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence 

Accountability 201 

When  Malindy  Sings     .    .  202 

Angelina 204 

In  the  Mornin' 205 

Encouragement      ....  207 

A  Coquette  Conquered     .  208 

Fearing,  Blanche 

My  Angel  and  I     ....     230 
Field.  Eugene 

The  Dream-ship     ....      191 

The  Limitations  of  Youth     192 

Long  Ago 193 

FiSK,  May  Isabel 

Her    First    Call    on    the 

Butcher 141 

Fitch,  Clyde 

Two     Letters     and     Two 

Telegrams 113 

Foss,  Sam  Walter 

The  Meeting  of  the  Clab- 

berhuses      298 

Fuller,  Henry  B. 

Pasquale's  Picture     ...       26 

Garland.  Hamlin 

Mrs.  Ripley's  Trip     ...       37 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 

The  Drama 25 

A  Theme     . 216 

GiLLILAN,     S.    Yv^. 

Mammy's  I>ullaby     ...     278 
Gordon,  Grace 

M  a  1 1  i  e '  s     Wants     and 
Wishes 291 

Hale,  Edward  Everett 

The      Man      without      a 

Country 104 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 

Uncle  Remus  on  an  Elec- 
tric Car .      125 

Henry,  O. 

The  Gift  of  the  Magi     .    .       67 
HiCHENS,  Robert 

Domini's  Triumph     ...       97 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 

Bill  and  Joe 238 


Hope,  Anthony 

Nature  and  Philosophy 
Hunt,  Leigh 

Abou  Ben  Adhem      .    . 

Cupid  Swallowed  .    .    . 


PAGE 

329 

247 
247 


Ingalls,  John  J. 

Opportunity 214 

Irwin,  Wallace 

A  Club  Meeting  of  Solo- 
mon's Wives 300 

Jacobs-Bond,  Carrie 

Talkin'  'bout  Trouble  .    .     275 

Jenks,  Tudor 

Abbie's  Accounts  ....     146 

Parried 337 

At  the  Door 341 

JoNSON,  Ben  (Trans.) 

Drink   to    Me    Only  with 
Thine  Eyes 251 

Keats,  John 

A  Tiling  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy 
Forever 249 

Kerr,  Job 

An  Italian's  Views  on  the 
Labor  Question      .    .    .     297 

Key,  Francis  Scott 
The  Star-Spangled  Banner    256 

King,  Ben 

Jane  Jones      198 

She  Does  not  Hear  ...  199 
If  I  can  be  by  Her  .  .  .  199 
But  Then 200 

Kipling,  Rudyard 

T!ie  Gate  of  the  Hundred 

Sorrows 77 

Gentlemen-Rankers  .    .    .      185 

Chant-Pagan 186 

My  Rival 188 

Boots 190 

LA\n'TON,  Will  J. 

The  Unexpected    ....     277 
Lancaster,  A.  E. 

The  Little  Church  around 

the  Corner 280 

Laughlin,  Clara  E. 

The  Making  of  a  Comedi- 
enne             50 

Lincoln,  Joseph  Crosby 
When  the  Minister  Comes 

to  Tea 301 

Aimt  'Mandy 302 


INDEX  TO   AUTHORS 


XXI 


235 

240 

419 
422 
424 


Longfellow,  Henry  W. 

The  Day  is  Done   .... 
Lowell,  James  Russell 

Auf  Wiedersehen  .... 
Lytton,  Bulwer 

lone  and  Nydia      .... 
Julia  and  her  Slaves     .    . 
The  Witch's  Cavern      .    . 
(Selections   from    "The 
Last     Days     of     Pom- 
peii") 419 

Markham,  Eo'mN 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe     .     221 
Marshall,  John 

On  a  Gray  Birthday     .    .     254 
M'Groarty,  John  S. 

P:1  Camino  Real     ....     215 
McPhelim,  Edward  J. 

To  Shakespeare's  Love     .     259 
Miller,  Joaquin 

The  Tiger  Lily 209 

The  Bravest  Battle   ...     211 
Mitchell,  S.  Weir 

The  Whole  Creation 
Groaneth 233 

MOLIERE 

Dialogue  from  "Critic  of 
the  School  for  Wives"       415 
Monroe,  Harriet 

The  Shadow  Child     .    .    .     232 
Morgan,  Bessie 

Spacially  Jim 282 

Moseley,  Litchfield 

Love  in  a  Balloon     ...     305 

Nesbxt,  Wilbur  D. 

A  Social  Promoter     ...        58 

Nasturchurns 219 

With  a  Posy  from  Shot- 
tery      220 


Payne,  John  Howard 

Home,  Sweet  Home      .    .     257 
Peattie,  Elia  W. 

Their  Dear  Little  Ghost   .        32 
Phillips,  Henry  Wallace 

A  Red-haired  Cupid      .    .       42 
Phillips,  Stephen 

Scene    from    "Paola   and 

Francosca" 351 

Poe,  a.  H. 

Granma  'Al'us  Does      .    .     274 


Rice,  Wallace 

The  Cheer  of  Those  Who 
Speak  English    ....     217 

Rich,  Helen  Hinsdale 

Somewhere 254 

Riley,  James  Wiiitcomb 

The  Old  Man  and  Jim  .  .  194 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  IMary's  .  196 
The  Life  Lesson     ....      197 

Romaine,  Harry 

Out  of  Arcadia 277 

Shakespeare 

Hamlet's    Instruction    to 

the  Players 157 

Hamlet's    Declaration    of 

Friendship 158 

Othello's  Apology  ...  158 
Mercutio's  Description  of 

Queen  Mab 160 

The  Seven  Ages  ....  101 
The  Motley  Fool  ....  162 
Benedick's    Solilocjuy    on 

Love 163 

Life's  Revels 163 

Juliet's    Wooing    of    the 

Night 164 

Tlie  Potion  Scene  ....  168 
Brutus  and  Cassius  .  .  .  357 
Scene     from     "As     You 

Like  It"      360 

Mrs.  Page  and  Mrs.  Ford      362 
Scene  from  "Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona"     .    .    .     364 
Dialogue    from    "Twelfth 
Night"    .......     368 

Scene  from  "Coriolanus"      371 
Scene  from  "King  John"      374 
Scene    from    "The    Mer- 
chant of  Venice  "...     377 
Shanly,  C.  D. 

Kitty  of  Coleraine     .    .    .     279 
Shaw,  G.  Bernard 

Napoleon  and  a   Strange 
Lady  (From  "The  Man 

of  Destiny") 315 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 

Good-night 249 

Verses  on  a  Cat      ....     250 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley 
Sir  Peter  and  Larly  Teazle 
(From  "The  School  for 
Scandal")    ......      409 

Scene  from  "The  Rivals"     412 


XXll 


INDEX   TO   AUTHORS 


PAGE 


Sherwood,  M.  E.  W.  (Trans.) 

Carcassonne 226 

Sill,  Edward  Rowland 

The  Fool's  Prayer   .      .    .     212 

Opportunity 213 

Smith,  Samuel  F. 

America 255 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 

Provengal  Lovers  ....     229 
Story,  W.  W. 

Cleopatra 259 

Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery 

Buying    her    Husband    a 
Christmas  Present     .    .      143 
Sutton,  Thomas  Shelley 

Life      288 

Tennyson,  Alfred 

Ulysses 241 

The  First  Quarrel      ...     243 
Terrett,  William  B. 

Platonic 286 

Tolstoi,  Leo 

How  Much  Land  does  a 
Man  Require?    ....       80 


Van  Dyke,  Henry 
A  Lover  of  Music 


PAGE 


115 


Watson,  William 

The  Lute  Player    ....     234 
Wauless,  Andrew 

She  Liked  Him  Rale  Weel     288 
Whitman,  Walt 

O  Captain  I    My  Captain !     248 
Whittier,  John  G. 

Marguerite      236 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler 

My  Ships 225 

Wilde,  Oscar 

The    Ballad    of    Reading 

Gaol 263 

WooLF,  Benjamin  E. 

Scene  from  "The  Mighty 

Dollar" 406 

Wordsworth,  William 

The  Daffodils 246 


I 


PROSE   SELECTIONS 


SELECTED   READINGS 


I— PROSE  SELECTIONS 


THE  DRAMA* 

Supposed  to  be  from  the  Polish 

I  SAT  in  the  crowded  theatre.  The  first  notes  of  the  or- 
chestra wandered  in  the  air;  then  the  full  harmony 
burst  forth  ;   then  ceased. 

The  conductor,  secretly  pleased  Avith  the  loud  applause, 
waited  a  moment,  then  played  again ;  but  as  he  struck  upon 
his  desk  for  the  third  time,  the  bell  sounded,  the  just- 
beginning  tones  of  the  wind-instruments  and  the  violins 
hushed  suddenly,  and  the  curtain  was  rolled  to  the  ceiling. 

Then  appeared  a  wonderful  vision,  wliich  shall  not  soon  be 
forgotten  by  me. 

For  know  that  I  am  one  who  loves  all  things  beautiful. 
Did  you  find  the  figure  of  a  man  lying  solitary  upon  the  wind- 
fashioned  hills  of  sand,  watching  the  large  sun  rise  from  the 
ocean  ?    That  was  I  ? 

It  was  I  who,  lonely,  walked  at  evening  through  the  woods 
of  Autumn,  beholding  the  sun's  level  light  strike  through  the 
unfallen  rod  and  golden  foliage,  — 

Whose  heart  trembled  when  he  saw  the  fire  that  rapidly 
consumed  the  dead  leaves  lying  upon  the  hillside,  and  spread 
a  robe  of  black  that  throbbed  with  crimson  jewels  under  the 
wind  of  the  rushing  flame. 

Know,  also,  that  the  august  forms  wrought  in  marble  by 
the  ancient  sculptors  have  power  upon  me,  also  the  imagina- 
tive works  of  the  incomparable  painters ;  and  that  the  voices 
of  the  early  poets  are  modem  and  familiar  to  me. 

What  vision  was  it,  then,  that  I  beheld;  what  art  was  it 
that  made  my  heart  tremble  and  filled  me  with  joy  that  was 
like  pain? 

♦  By  vermission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Co..  publishers  of  Mr.  Gilder's  works. 


26  SELECTED   READINGS 

Was  it  the  art  of  the  poet;  was  it  of  a  truth  poetry  made 
visible  in  hmnan  attitudes  and  motions? 

Was  it  the  art  of  the  painter  —  which  Eaphael  knew  so 
well  when  he  created  those  most  gracious  shapes  that  yet  live 
on  the  walls  of  the  Vatican? 

Or  was  it  the  severe  and  marvellous  art  of  the  sculptor,  in 
which  antique  Phidias  excelled,  and  which  Michael  Angelo 
indued  with  new  and  mighty  power  ? 

Or,  haply,  it  was  that  enchanting  myth,  made  real  before 
our  eyes  —  of  the  insensate  marble  warmed  to  life  beneath 
the  passionate  gaze  of  the  sculptor ! 

No,  no;  it  was  not  this  miracle,  of  which  the  bards  have 
so  often  sung;  nor  was  it  the  art  of  the  poet,  nor  of  the 
painter,  nor  of  the  musician  (tho'  often  I  thought  of  music), 
nor  of  the  sculptor.  It  was  none  of  these  that  moved  my 
heart  and  the  hearts  of  all  who  beheld,  and  yet  it  was  all  of 
these. 

For  it  was  the  ancient  and  noble  art  of  the  drama,  —  that 
art  which  includes  all  other  arts,  —  and  she  who  was  the 
mistress  of  it  was  the  divine  Modjeska. 

EicHARD  Watson  Gilder. 


PASQUALE'S    PICTURE* 


(( 


BUT  supposing  he  were  not  to  come,  after  all  ?  "  asks  old 
Assunta  with  some  anxiety. 

"  Never  fear,  madre  mia,"  returns  Pasquale,  confidently. 
"  Have  I  not  said  that  he  is  a  gran  signore  inglese  ?  He  will 
do  as  he  has  promised." 

Ah,  that  was  a  day  long  remembered  in  Murano.  What  a 
wave  of  excitement  rippled  over  the  town,  what  an  impulse 
of  curiosity  brought  everj'body  flocking  to  old  Assunta's 
house ! 

Pasquale  is  the  hero  of  the  hour.  For  the  gran  signore  with 
whom  he  spent  a  day  on  the  lagoon  last  week  is  coming  to 
Murano  expressly  to  make  Pasquale's  picture.  So  he  stands 
here  this  sunny  afternoon  amidst  his  circle  of  friends  and 
acquaintances;  and  he  wears  a  mighty  black  felt  hat  upon 
his  shapely  head,  and  the  big  collar  of  a  wonderful  new  plaid 
shirt  —  his   mother's   express  make  —  lies   over  his  broad, 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  27 

square  shoulders ;  and  Assunta  regards  him  with  a  fond  pride, 
and  Lucia  with  a  timid  adoration,  wliile  everybody,  flocking 
down  and  around,  choruses  the  advantage  of  having  made 
such  a  friend. 

And,  best  of  all,  the  picture  is  to  remain  Pasquale's  own. 

Ah,  but  here  is  the  signore  inglese  coming  up  the  canal  this 
very  moment.  Catarina  at  her  window  is  sourly  surveying 
the  whole  scene.  Aha !  when  has  old  Catarina  ever  had  a 
guest  like  this?  And  everybody  hastens  to  help  the  signor 
alight.  Ho,  there !  pass  out  the  three-legged  box  with  the 
hole  in  it !  Here,  Gigi,  you  young  rascal,  take  this  other  box 
full  of  bottles  and  things,  and  mind  you  have  a  care !  Wel- 
come, Eccellenza,  to  Murano ! 

Thanks  to  this  gracious  gentleman,  they  shall  have  Pas- 
quale  with  them  always,  after  this.  When  he  goes  to  Venice 
now  and  then,  he  will  yet  leave  himself  behind  in  Murano. 
Ah,  what  a  joy  this  portrait  would  always  remain  for  them ! 

^S"  accomodi,  Eccellenza.  Where  shall  we  stand  this  strange 
machine?  And  where  shall  we  put  all  these  curious  little 
bottles,  each  with  a  different  color  and  each  with  a  different 
smell  ?  —  Yes,  that  will  do  very  well  —  bene,  benissimo.  And 
now  we  will  proceed  with  the  picture  without  loss  of  time. 
Let  the  good  Pasquale  stand  just  about  here,  please,  and  rest 
his  eye  about  there,  and  keep  very  quiet  just  a  moment.  Now, 
then.  Girolamo  sniffs ;  he  has  seen  the  same  thing  done  — 
Dio  mio,  how  many  times  !  —  over  in  Venice  itself.  Assunta 
crushes  him  with  one  look.  Quiet,  please,  my  friends.  A 
deep  silence  falls,  while  the  great  miracle  is  being  wrought. 
An  old  crone  scuffling  by  is  frozen  into  stone  by  a  multitude 
of  hisses.    ISTot  a  soul  whispers.  —  There,  now ;  that 's  all. 

What!  done  already?  'Sh!  the  signor  is  asking  old 
Assunta  for  a  dark  room  and  a  candle-end.  Mystery !  Per- 
plexed Assunta  —  what  shall  she  do  ?  A  dark  room  and  a 
candle  !    Was  this  all  quite  —  quite  right  and  proper? 

Oh,  yes,  indeed ;  right  and  proper,  and  quite  indispensable. 
So  the  magician  is  lost  to  the  general  gaze  for  a  few  minutes. 
When  he  returns  his  finger-tips  are  more  or  less  stained  and 
discolored,  and  he  carries  in  one  hand  a  square  sheet  of  glass 
which  he  treats  very  carefully  and  scrutinizes  closely,  with 
one  eye  shut.  Oho!  this,  then,  is  the  picture!  Come  now; 
let  us  see  how  it  looks. 

Yes,  but  is  it  the  picture,  after  all?  How  can  it  be?  — 
this  poor,  pale,  yellow  affair  that  is  not  to  be  seen  at  all  save 


28  SELECTED   READINGS 

when  held  just  so,  and  that  looks  quite  as  much  like  anybody 
else  as  like  Pasquale.  Our  new  friend  is  doubtless  very  kind 
and  very  clever,  and  means  well  enough ;  but  —  Pasquale 
himself  is  quite  crestfallen,  and  Assunta  looks  very  dubious 
indeed. 

The  signor  takes  all  this  with  a  careless  smile;  then,  in 
due  course,  he  pulls  out  a  sharp  lead  pencil,  and  makes  a  few 
dots  and  scratches  here  and  there  on  the  shadowy  face  before 
him.  Girolamo  laughs  aloud;  the  enraged  Assunta  glares 
with  almost  equal  severity  on  both.  And  then  the  signor, 
with  a  reproving  shake  of  the  head,  sets  down  the  glass  very 
carefully  in  full  sunlight,  and  directs  everybody  to  fall  back 
beyond  the  possibility  of  throwing  a  shadow  upon  the  image. 
So,  then,  there  is  something  more  to  be  done  still ;  perhaps 
this  is  n't  the  real  picture  after  all.  Vfhj,  look  !  look  !  I  beg 
of  you  !  The  signor  has  placed  a  bit  of  paper  under  the  glass, 
and  the  paper  is  turning  black  before  our  very  eyes !  This, 
then,  is  the  picture,  the  real  picture,  at  last!    Evviva!  Ev — 

Quiet,  my  good  people,  for  just  a  moment  more.  One  or 
tAvo  small  things  still  to  be  done,  and  then  the  picture  will  be 
ready  to  look  at,  to  touch,  to  do  what  you  please  with.  But 
for  the  present,  pazienza.  Then  comes  the  last  act  of  all  in 
this  thrilling  drama :  the  signor  whips  out  a  sharp  little  pair 
of  scissors  from  his  vest  pocket,  trims  the  picture  along  the 
edges,  fastens  it  deftly  upon  a  stiff  piece  of  cardboard,  gives 
it  a  parting  rub  with  his  elbow,  and  then,  holding  it  high 
overhead  in  his  splotched  and  stained  fingers,  gayly  cries :  — • 

"Eccolo!  Ecco  nostra  hravo  Pasquale  I  "  And  then,  with 
a  flourishing  bow  and  an  added  "  Complimenti,"  he  hands  it 
over  to  the  gondolier. 

At  last,  the  picture!  It  is  stupendo;  it  is  magnifico! 
Wonder ;  delight ;  ecstasy !  When  has  Pasquale  ever  been  so 
proud  and  happy?  And  when,  when  has  old  Assunta  ever 
been  beheld  in  siich  a  transport  as  this  ?  With  a  loud  scream 
of  delight  she  catches  the  picture  from  Pasquale's  hand,  kisses 
it  again  and  again,  and  bursts  into  a  flood  of  happy  tears. 
'"■  Look  !  "  she  cries ;  "  look !  See  the  eyes,  the  mouth,  the 
hair,  and  every  single  little  button  on  the  shirt!  Ah,  vera- 
mente,  it  is  my  own  dear  son !  "  Oh,  was  there  another  such 
son  in  all  ]\Iurano  ?  And  was  there  another  such  picture  in 
all  the  world? 

Comparative  quiet  comes  presently;  and  the  signor,  who 
has  been  constrained  for  the  moment  to  turn  away  his  face,  — 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  29 

humbl}^  tlianlvfiil,  perhaps,  to  have  been  made  the  instrument 
of  so  great  a  joy,  —  becomes  himself  again,  and  says  that  his 
little  task  is  done,  and  that  if  they  will  allow  him  to  wash  his 
hands  he  will  get  his  things  together  and  try  to  reach  Venice 
before  sunset. 

Ho,  friends,  the  gran  signore  stands  to  depart!  Hi,  Gigi, 
you  little  monkey,  lend  a  hand  again  with  all  those  things ! 
Ha,  what  is  it  you  have  let  drop  ?  Alas  !  it  is  the  glass  picture 
that  falls  upon  the  pavement  and  breaks  into  a  thousand  frag- 
ments, you  careless  wicked  boy !  No  matter,  my  friends ;  you 
have  the  paper  picture  all  safe,  and  that  is  the  chief  concern. 
So,  then,  good-bye.  The  brave  Pasquale  will  himself  conduct 
his  Excellency  back  to  Venice.  Again,  then,  addio  !  A  rive- 
derci!  Buon  viaggio!  Addio,  Eccellenza!  And  so  they  go 
down  the  canal,  Pasquale's  vast  hat  flapping  to  and  fro  in 
exact  accord  with  the  rhythmical  movements  of  his  strong 
and  supple  frame,  and  the  gran  signore  gayly  waving  his  cap 
with  one  hand  and  vigorously  brandishing  his  stick  with  the 
other,  until  a  quick  turn  in  the  middle  distance  puts  them 
altogether  out  of  sight. 

II 

What  need  to  say  how  precious  the  picture  became  in  old 
Assunta's  eyes;  how  jealously  it  was  guarded  from  all  harm 
or  mishap ;  how  proudly  it  was  displayed  before  the  admiring 
gaze  of  friends  and  privileged  visitors? 

But  if  the  picture  was  precious  now,  how  doubly  precious 
was  it  to  become  hereafter !  Oh,  fatal  day  —  the  day  when 
Pasquale  went  over  the  lagoon  to  Venice,  and  was  brought 
back  stark  and  dripping,  with  his  dark  locks  all  matted  to- 
gether and  his  bright  eyes  forever  closed !  Terrible  was  old 
Assunta's  anguish  when  they  brought  his  dead  body  back  to 
]\rurano ;  and  less  violent,  but  no  less  intense  and  inconsol- 
able, was  her  grief  when,  the  day  following,  the  little  funeral 
train  glided  back  from  San  Michele  and  left  Pasquale  still 
to  float  on  and  on,  eternally,  with  all  the  Venice  that  had 
been  and  was  not. 

When  Assunta  entered  the  familiar  but  blighted  chamber, 
the  picture,  now  fastened  on  the  wall,  met  her  lirst  glance. 
Ah,  the  picture !  In  her  gi-eat  distress  she  had  all  but  for- 
gotten it,  and  new  her  Pasquale,  dead  and  buried  though  he 
be,  smiles  gravely  and  fondly  down  upon  her.  A  thousand 
blessings  upon  the  good  JVladonna  who  had  sent  so  kind  a 


30  SELECTED   READINGS 

friend  to  leave  them  such  a  memorial  as  this !  Tears  of  grat- 
itude mingle  with  tears  of  grief,  and  the  acuteness  of  her  first 
sorrow  is  over  and  past.  Their  Pasquale  is  with  them  yet. 
The  picture  shall  remain  where  it  now  is,  a  perpetual  shrine, 
and  he  shall  be  present  to  them  always,  always  —  morning, 
noon,  and  night. 

There  are  those  upon  whom  fate  enjoins  the  graceless  task 
of  being  cruel  to  be  kind;  and  there  are  those  to  whom  it 
assigns  the  infinitely  harder  lot  of  being  kind  but  to  be  cruel. 
The  genial  young  gentleman  who  whiled  away  an  idle  after- 
noon in  that  old  Italian  town  never  knew  what  a  trail  of 
doubt  and  despair  and  utter  desolation  his  visit  left,  in  the 
end,  behind  him.    And  may  he  never  learn! 

It  is  only  the  third  morning  after  Pasquale's  death,  and 
Assunta  stands  there  before  his  picture,  her  hands  tightly 
clasped  together  and  her  face  clouded  with  doubt  and  anxiety. 
She  rubs  her  old  eyes ;  can  it  be  that  they  are  coming  to  be 
less  sharp  and  sure  than  they  have  been  heretofore  ? 

"  It  seems  to  be  fading,"  she  murmurs,  —  "  fading !  " 

Ah,  my  gay  and  gracious  young  amateur,  are  you  quite  sure 
that  in  all  the  haste  and  excitement  of  the  moment  you  car- 
ried out  completely  every  step  of  your  process?  Let  us  but 
hope  so,  for  old  Assunta's  sake. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  it  should  not  have  stayed  as  it 
was  at  first.  But  no  matter ;  it  is  still  our  Pasquale  — 
cwo ! " 

A  sudden  thought  strikes  Lucia.  She  looks  anxiously,  tim- 
idly, compassionately  at  the  old  woman,  yet  cannot  find  the 
heart  to  say  a  word.  But  she  watches  the  picture.  There 
seems  to  be  no  change  at  the  end  of  one  hour;  none  at  the 
end  of  two.  By  afternoon,  however,  there  is  a  change  —  the 
picture  is  dimmer;  only  a  little,  but  dimmer  all  the  same. 
Assunta  sees  it  too.  And  they  both  feel  together  that  the 
picture  not  merely  has  faded,  but  is  fading  all  the  time.  And 
neither  dares  ask  the  other  how  all  this  is  going  to  end. 

Assunta  feels  that  something  must  be  done,  and  done  at 
once.  To  whom  shall  she  turn  ?  She  comes  to  a  decision :  she 
will  go  to  the  lihrajo,  that  little  old  man  who  keeps  a  shop 
around  the  corner,  who  sells  books  that  the  learned  can  read, 
who  has  that  beautiful  image  of  the  Madonna  in  his  window. 
Why  had  n't  she  thought  of  him  before  ?  There  was  a  man 
who  would  know  all  about  pictures,  indeed  !  —  let  him  be  con- 
sulted without  loss  of  time.    And  the  lib  raj o  comes  blinking 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  31 

to  the  front  of  his  ding}^  little  shop,  and  holds  the  picture 
up  to  the  light  with  his  fat  hands,  and  rambles  vaguely 
through  a  maze  of  words  that  has  to  do  with  everything  but 
his  own  entire  ignorance  of  the  matter,  and  sends  poor 
Assunta  home  with  a  dazed  head  and  an  aching  heart. 

She  dreads  to-morrow.  How  will  the  picture  look  then? 
she  asks  herself  a  thousand  times  over.  When  to-morrow 
comes  she  is  standing  before  the  picture  —  which  is  now 
duller  and  dimmer  than  ever  —  questioning,  with  locked 
fingers  and  a  tear-worn  face,  if  no  agency  nor  any  power  can 
stop  this  dread  fatality.  Is  she  doomed  to  remain  in  helpless 
contemplation  of  such  slow-wrought  ruin?  Must  she  watch 
powerlessly  the  sparkle  fade  from  those  bright  eyes,  the  smile 
pass  away  from  those  fond  lips?    No;  there  is  help  for  her 

—  there  must  be  —  somehow,  somewhere.  She  will  go  to  the 
parroco,  who  has  never  failed  her  yet  in  time  of  need.  She 
will  lay  the  whole  matter  before  him  and  pray  for  his 
assistance. 

So,  with  the  picture  in  her  hand,  she  trudges  confidently 
through  the  sun  —  the  fierce  and  blinding  sun,  the  cruel,  re- 
morseless, destructive  sun,  that  is  but  too  surely  undoing  all 
that  he  had  done  for  them  —  to  the  house  of  the  parish  priest. 
Oh,  who  would  have  believed  it  ?  Who  could  have  thought  it 
true  ?  The  parroco  himself,  her  main  prop,  her  chief  reliance, 
to  fail  her  at  a  time  like  this  !  Sick  and  dizzy  and  despairing, 
she  turns  her  weary  steps  homeward. 

The  picture  goes  on  fading.  Every  half-hour  brings  its 
difference  now.  With  a  strong  light  and  an  intent  regard  the 
several  features  may  yet  be  distinguished;  but  they  are  fad- 
ing, fading,  fading  all  the  time,  as  stars  do  before  the  crude 
and  garish  coming  of  the  cold  first  light  of  a  winter  morning ; 
and  now  and  then  some  one  of  them  goes  out  altogether  and 
for  aye.     Finally  comes  the  day  —  Assunta  is  at  home  alone 

—  when  even  the  outline  of  the  general  mass  fades  away  as 
all  else  has  faded,  and  the  old  woman,  pressing  her  fingers 
to  her  aching  eyes,  and  giving  out  a  bitter  and  hopeless  cry, 
feels  that  now,  indeed,  Pasquale  has  gone  from  her  forever, 
and  that  a  universal  darkness  has  overtaken  all  things. 

"  I  have  lost  him  twice !  "  she  wails,  and  falls  back  utterly 
crushed  and  broken. 

And  yet  after  all  this,  does  there  not  remain  one  final  resort 
that  cannot  fail?  Is  there  not  one  power  to  whom  she  can 
make  a  last  and  sure  appeal  ?    She  rises  from  the  fragments 


32  SELECTED   READINGS 

of  her  scanty  repast,  new  vigor  in  her  step  and  fresh  resolu- 
tion in  her  face.  She  locks  the  door,  crosses  the  coiirtyard, 
turns  down  the  riva,  and  directs  her  steps  toward  the  cathe- 
dral. The  neighbors  cannot  counsel  her;  the  parroco  cannot 
assist  her ;  she  will  appeal  to  the  pity  of  the  Blessed  Madonna 
herself. 

Lucia  returned  home  at  twilight.  The  house  stood  de- 
serted :  no  light,  no  fire,  no  inmates.  On  the  table  were  the 
scanty  remnants  of  Assunta's  midday  meal,  but  Assunta  her- 
self was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Some  vague  instinct  prompted 
the  girl  to  direct  her  search  toward  the  cathedral.  There 
appeared  to  be  no  one  within;  the  church  seemed  to  stand 
altogether  empty.  Or,  no ;  not  quite.  For  from  the  darken- 
ing glory  of  the  apse  an  immemorial  IMadonna  frowned  down 
her  grim  and  inexorable  refusal ;  while  on  the  chill  altar  steps 
below,  a  heartbroken  old  woman,  with  a  faded  brown  card 
clutched  in  her  stilfening  fingers,  bowed  her  gray  head  meekly 
and  eternally  before  this  court  of  last  appeal. 

Henry  B.  Fuller. 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

THEIR    DEAR    LITTLE    GHOST 

THE  first  time  one  looked  at  Elsbeth,  one  was  not  prepos- 
sessed. She  was  thin  and  brown,  her  nose  turned 
slightly  upward,  her  toes  went  in  just  a  perceptible  degree, 
and  her  hair  was  perfectly  straight.  But  when  one  looked 
longer,  one  perceived  that  she  was  a  charming  little  creature. 
The  straight  hair  was  as  fine  as  silk,  and  hung  in  funny  little 
braids  dovm.  her  back ;  there  was  not  a  flaw  in  her  soft  bro'\\Ti 
skin ;  and  her  mouth  was  tender  and  shapely.  But  her  par- 
ticular charm  lay  in  a  look  which  she  habitually  had,  of  seem- 
ing to  know  curious  things  —  such  as  it  is  not  allotted  to 
ordinary  persons  to  know.    One  felt  tempted  to  say  to  her : 

"  What  are  these  beautiful  things  which  you  know,  and  of 
which  others  are  ignorant?  What  is  it  you  see  with  those 
wise  and  pellucid  eyes?    Why  is  it  that  everybody  loves  you ?  " 

Elsbeth  was  my  little  godchild,  and  I  knew  her  better  than 
I  knew  any  other  child  in  the  world.  But  still  I  could  not 
truthfully  say  that  I  was  familiar  with  her,  for  to  me  her 
spirit  was  like  a  fair  and  fragrant  road  in  the  midst  of  which 
I  might  walk  in  peace  and  joy,  but  where  I  was  continually 
to  discover  something  new.    The  last  time  I  saw  her  quite  well 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  33 

and  strong  was  over  in  the  woods  where  she  had  gone  with  her 
two  little  brothers  and  her  nurse  to  pass  the  hottest  weeks  of 
Summer.  I  followed  her,  foolish  old  creature  that  I  was,  just 
to  be  near  her,  for  I  needed  to  dwell  where  the  sweet  aroma  of 
her  life  could  reach  me. 

One  morning  when  I  came  from  m}^  room,  limping  a  little, 
because  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  used  to  be  and  the  lake  wind 
works  havoc  with  me,  my  little  godchild  came  dancing  to  me 
singing : 

"  Come  with  me  and  I  '11  show  you  my  places,  my  places, 
m}'  places ! " 

Miriam,  when  she  chanted  by  the  Eed  Sea  might  have  been 
more  exultant,  but  she  could  not  have  been  more  bewitching. 
Of  course  I  knew  what  "  places  "  were,  because  I  had  once 
been  a  little  girl  myself,  but  unless  you  are  acquainted  with 
the  real  meaning  of  "  places,"  it  would  be  useless  to  try  to 
explain.  Either  you  know  "  places  "  or  you  do  not  —  just  as 
you  understand  the  meaning  of  poetry  or  you  do  not.  Tliere 
are  things  in  the  world  which  cannot  be  taught. 

Elsbeth's  two  tiny  brothers  were  present,  and  I  took  one  by 
each  hand  and  followed  her.  No  sooner  had  we  got  out  of 
doors  in  the  woods  than  a  sort  of  mystery  fell  upon  the  world 
and  upon  us.  We  were  cautioned  to  move  silently;  and  we 
did  so,  avoiding  the  crunching  of  dry  twigs. 

"  The  fairies  hate  noise,"  whispered  my  little  godchild,  her 
eyes  narrowing  like  a  cat's. 

"  I  must  get  my  wand  first  thing  I  do,"  she  said  in  an  awed 
imdertone.  "  It  is  useless  to  try  to  do  anything  without  a 
wand." 

The  tiny  boys  were  profoundly  impressed,  and,  indeed,  so 
was  I.  I  felt  that  at  last,  I  should,  if  I  behaved  properly,  see 
the  fairies,  which  had  hitherto  avoided  my  materialistic  gaze. 
It  was  an  enchanting  moment,  for  there  appeared,  Just  then, 
to  be  nothing  commonplace  about  life. 

There  was  a  swale  near  by,  and  into  this  the  little  girl 
plunged.  T  could  see  her  red  straw  hat  bobbing  about  among 
the  tall  rushes,  and  I  wondered  if  there  were  snakes. 

"  Do  you  think  there  are  snakes  ?  "  I  asked  one  of  the  tiny 
boys. 

"If  there  are,"  he  said  with  conviction,  "  they  won't  dare 
hurt  her." 

He  convinced  mo.  I  feared  no  more.  Presently  Elsbeth 
came  out  of  the  swale.    In  her  hand  was  a  brown  "  cattail,'* 

3 


34  SELECTED   READINGS 

perfectly  full  and  round.  She  carried  it  as  queens  carry  their 
sceptres  —  the  beautiful  queens  we  dream  of  in  our  youth. 

"  Come,"  she  commanded,  and  waved  the  sceptre  in  a  fine 
manner.  So  we  followed,  each  tiny  boy  gripping  my  hand 
tight.  We  were  all  three  a  trifle  awed.  Elsbeth  led  us  into  a 
dark  underbrush.  The  branches,  as  they  flew  back  in  our 
faces,  left  them  wet  with  dew.  A  wee  path,  made  by  the  girl's 
dear  feet,  guided  our  footsteps.  Perfumes  of  elderberry  and 
wild  cucumber  scented  the  air.  A  bird,  frightened  from  its 
nest,  made  frantic  cries  above  our  heads.  The  underbrush 
thickened.  Presently  the  gloom  of  the  hemlocks  was  over  us, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  shadow}^  green  a  tulip  tree  flaunted  its 
leaves.  Waves  boomed  and  broke  upon  the  shore  below. 
There  was  a  growing  dampness  as  we  went  on,  treading  very 
lightly.  A  little  green  snake  ran  coquettishly  from  us.  A  fat 
and  glossy  squirrel  chattered  at  us  from  a  safe  height,  strok- 
ing his  whiskers  with  a  complacent  air. 

At  length  we  reached  the  "  place."  It  was  a  circle  of  velvet 
grass,  bright  as  the  first  blades  of  Spring,  delicate  as  fine  sea- 
ferns.  The  sunlight,  falling  down  the  shaft  between  the 
hemlocks,  flooded  it  with  a  softened  light  and  made  the  forest 
round  about  look  like  deep  purple  velvet.  My  little  godchild 
stood  in  the  midst  and  raised  her  wand  impressively. 

"  This  is  my  place,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  wonderful  glad- 
ness in  her  tone.  "  This  is  where  I  come  to  the  fairy  balls. 
Do  you  see  them  ?  " 

"  See  what  ?  "  whispered  one  tiny  boy. 

"  The  fairies." 

There  was  a  silence.    The  older  boy  pulled  at  my  skirt. 

"Do  you  see  them?"  he  asked,  his  voice  trembling  with 
expectancy. 

"  Indeed,"  I  said,  "  I  fear  I  am  too  old  and  wicked  to  see 
fairies,  and  yet  —  are  their  hats  red  ?  " 

"  They  are,"  laughed  my  little  girl.  "  Their  hats  are  red, 
and  as  small  —  as  small !  "  She  held  up  the  pearly  nail  of 
her  wee  finger  to  give  us  the  correct  idea. 

"  And  their  shoes  are  very  pointed  at  the  toes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  pointed !  " 

"  And  their  garments  are  green  ?  " 

"  As  green  as  grass." 

*'  And  they  blow  little  horns  ?  " 

*'  The  sweetest  little  horns  !  " 

"  I  think  I  see  them,"  I  cried. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  35 

"  We  think  we  see  them  too,"  said  the  tiny  bo3'S,  laughing 
in  perfect  glee. 

"  And  you  hear  their  horns,  don't  you  ?  "  my  little  godchild 
asked  somewhat  anxiously. 

"  Don't  we  hear  their  horns?  "  I  asked  the  tiny  boys. 

"  We  think  we  hear  their  horns,"  they  cried.  "  Don't  you 
think  we  do?" 

"  It  must  be  we  do,"  I  said.  "  Are  n't  we  very,  very 
happy  ?  " 

We  all  laughed  softly.  Then  we  kissed  each  other  and 
Elsbeth  led  us  out,  her  wand  high  in  the  air. 

And  so  my  feet  found  the  lost  path  to  Arcady. 

The  next  day  I  was  called  to  the  Pacific  coast,  and  duty 
kept  me  there  till  well  into  December.  A  few  days  before 
the  date  set  for  my  return  to  my  home,  a  letter  came  from 
Elsbeth's  mother. 

"  Our  little  girl  is  gone  into  the  Unknown,"  she  wrote  — 
'■  that  Unknown  in  which  she  seemed  to  be  forever  trying  to 
pry.  We  knew  she  was  going,  and  we  told  her.  She  was  (|uite 
brave,  but  she  begged  us  to  try  some  way  to  keep  her  till  after 
Christmas.  '  My  presents  are  not  finished  yet,'  she  made 
moan.  '  And  I  did  so  want  to  see  what  I  was  going  to  have. 
You  can't  have  a  very  happy  Christmas  without  me,  I  sliould 
think.  Can  you  arrange  to  keep  me  somehow  till  after  then  ?  ' 
We  could  not '  arrans^e '  either  with  God  in  heaven  or  science 
upon  earth,  and  she  is  gone." 

She  was  only  my  little  godchild,  and  I  am  an  old  maid, 
with  no  business  fretting  over  children,  but  it  seemed  as  if 
the  medium  of  light  and  beauty  had  been  taken  from  me. 
Through  this  crystal  soul  I  had  perceived  whatever  was  love- 
liest. However,  what  was,  was!  I  returned  to  my  home  and 
took  up  a  coui'se  of  Eg^'ptian  history,  and  determined  to  con- 
cern myself  with  nothing  this  side  the  Ptolemies. 

Her  mother  has  told  me  how,  on  Christmas  eve,  as  usual, 
slie  and  Elsbeth's  father  filled  the  stockings  of  the  little  ones, 
and  hung  them,  where  they  had  always  hung,  by  the  fireplace. 
They  had  little  heart  for  the  task,  but  they  had  been  prodigal 
that  year  in  their  expenditures,  and  had  heaped  upon  the  two 
tiny  boys  all  ihe  treasures  they  thought  would  appeal  to  thein. 
Thev  asked  themselves  how  thev  could  have  been  so  insane 
previously  as  to  exercise  economy  at  Christmas  time,  and 
what  they  meant  by  not  getting  Elsbeth  the  autoharp  she 
had  asked  for  the  year  before. 


36  SELECTED   READINGS 


6e 


And  now  —  "  began  her  father,  thinking  of  harps.  But 
he  could  not  complete  this  sentence,  of  course,  and  the  two 
went  on  passionately  and  almost  angrily  with  their  task. 
There  were  two  stockings  and  two  piles  of  toys.  Two  stock- 
ings only,  and  only  two  piles  of  toys !    Two  is  very  little ! 

They  went  away  and  left  the  darkened  room,  and  after  a 
time  they  slept  —  after  a  long  time.  Perhaps  that  was  about 
the  time  the  tiny  boys  awoke,  and,  putting  on  their  little 
dressing  gowns  and  bed  slippers,  made  a  dash  for  the  room 
where  the  Christmas  things  were  always  placed.  The  older 
one  carried  a  candle  which  gave  out  a  feeble  light.  The  other 
followed  behind  through  the  silent  house.  They  were  very 
impatient  and  eager,  but  when  they  reached  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room  they  stopped,  for  they  saw  that  another  child 
was  before  them. 

It  was  a  delicate  little  creature,  sitting  in  her  white  night 
gown,  with  two  rumpled  funny  braids  falling  down  her  back, 
and  she  seemed  to  be  weeping.  As  they  watched,  she  arose, 
and  putting  out  one  slender  finger  as  a  child  does  when  she 
counts,  she  made  sure  over  and  over  again  —  three  sad  times 
—  that  there  were  only  two  stockings  and  two  piles  of  toys ! 
Only  those  and  no  more. 

The  little  figure  looked  so  familiar  that  the  boys  started 
toward  it,  but  just  then,  putting  up  her  arm  and  bowing  her 
face  in  it,  as  Elsbeth  had  been  used  to  do  when  she  wept  or 
was  offended,  the  little  thing  glided  away  and  went  out. 
That 's  what  the  boys  said.    It  went  out  as  a  candle  goes  out. 

They  ran  and  woke  their  parents  with  the  tale,  and  all  the 
house  was  searched  in  a  wonderment,  and  disbelief,  and  hope, 
and  tumult!  But  nothing  was  found.  For  nights  they 
watched.  But  there  was  only  the  silent  house.  Only  the 
empty  rooms.  They  told  the  boys  they  must  have  been  mis- 
taken.   But  the  boys  shook  their  heads. 

"  We  know  our  Elsbeth,"  said  they.  "  It  was  our  Elsbeth, 
cryin'  'cause  she  had  n't  no  stockin'  an'  no  toys,  and  we  would 
have  given  her  all  ours,  only  she  went  out  —  jus'  went  out !  " 

Alack ! 

The  next  Christmas  I  helped  with  the  little  festival.  It  was 
none  of  my  affair,  but  I  asked  to  help,  and  they  let  me,  and 
when  we  were  all  through  there  were  three  stockings  and  three 
piles  of  toys,  and  in  the  largest  one  were  all  the  things  that  I 
could  think  of  that  my  dear  child  would  love.  I  locked  the 
boys'  chamber  that  night,  and  I  slept  on  the  divan  in  the 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  37 

parlor  off  the  sitting-room.  I  slept  but  little,  and  the  night 
was  very  still  —  so  windless  and  white  and  still  that  I  think 
I  must  have  heard  the  slightest  noise.  Yet  I  heard  none. 
Had  I  been  in  my  grave  I  think  my  ears  would  not  have  re- 
mained more  unsaluted. 

Yet  when  daylight  came  and  I  went  to  unlock  the  boys' 
bedchamber  door,  I  saw  that  the  stocking  and  all  the  treasures 
which  I  had  bought  for  my  little  godchild  were  gone.  There 
was  not  a  vestige  of  them  remaining ! 

Of  course  we  told  the  boys  nothing.  As  for  me,  after  din- 
ner I  went  home  and  buried  myself  once  more  in  my  history, 
and  so  interested  was  I  that  midnight  came  without  my  know- 
ing it.  I  should  not  have  looked  up  at  all,  I  suppose,  to 
become  aware  of  the  time,  had  it  not  been  for  a  faint,  sweet 
sound  as  of  a  child  striking  a  stringed  instrument.  It  was  so 
delicate  and  remote  that  I  hardly  heard  it,  but  so  joyous  and 
tender  that  I  could  not  but  listen,  and  when  I  heard  it  a  sec- 
ond time  it  seemed  as  if  I  caught  the  echo  of  a  child's  laugh. 
At  first  I  was  puzzled.  Then  I  remembered  the  little  auto- 
harp  I  had  placed  among  the  other  things  in  that  pile  of 
vanished  toys.    I  said  aloud : 

"  Farewell,  dear  little  ghost.  Go  rest.  Eest  in  joy,  dear 
little  ghost.     Farewell,  farewell." 

That  was  years  ago,  but  there  has  been  silence  since.  Els- 
beth  was  always  an  obedient  little  thing. 

Elia  W.  Peattie, 

"MRS.    RIPLEY'S    TRIP"* 

From  f'MAiN  Travelled  Roads" 

THE  night  was  in  windy  November,  and  the  blast,  threat- 
ening rain,  roared  around  the  poor  little  shanty  of 
Uncle  Ripley,  set  like  a  chicken-trap  on  the  vast  Iowa  prairie. 
Uncle  Ethan  was  mending  his  old  violin,  totally  oblivious  of 
his  tireless  old  wife,  who,  having  "  finis^hed  the  su})per  dishes," 
sat  knitting  a  stocking,  evidently  for  the  little  grandson  who 
lay  before  the  stove  like  a  cat. 

Neither  of  the  old  people  wore  glasses,  and  tlieir  light  was 
a  tallow  candle;  they  couldn't  afford  "none  o'  them  new- 
fangled lamps."  The  room  was  small,  the  chairs  were 
wooden,  and  the  walls  bare  —  a  home  where  poverty  was  a 
never-absent  guest. 

♦  By  permiasion  of  the  author  and  the  publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company. 


38  SELECTED   READINGS 

Suddenly  the  old  lady  paused,  stuck  a  needle  in  the  spare 
knob  of  hair  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and,  looking  at  Eipley, 
said  decisively,  "  Ethan  Kipley,  you  '11  half  to  do  your  own 
cooking  from  now  on  to  New  Year's ;  I  'm  goin'  back  to 
Yaark  State." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  y'  be." 

"  Well  you  '11  find  out." 

"  Goin'  to  start  to-morrow,  mother?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  ain't ;  but  I  am  on  Thursday.  I  want  to  get  to 
Sally's  by  Sunday,  sure,  an'  to  Silas's  on  Thanksgivin'." 

"  How  d'  ye  'xpect  to  get  the  money,  mother  ?  Anybody 
died  an'  left  yeh  a  pile  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind  where  I  get  the  money,  so  's  't  you  don't 
half  to  bear  it.  The  land  knows  if  I  'd  a-waited  for  you  to 
pay  my  way  —  " 

"  You  need  n't  twit  me  of  bein'  poor,  old  woman,  I  've  done 
my  part  t'  get  along.    I  've  worked  day  in  and  day  out  —  " 

"  Oh !    I  ain't  done  no  work,  have  I  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  say  you  had  n't  done  no  work." 

"  Yes,  you  did"!  " 

"  I  did  n't  neither.    I  said  —  " 

"  I  know  what  you  said." 

"  I  said  I  'd  done  my  part !  I  did  n't  say  you  had  n't  done 
your  part." 

"  I  know  you  did  n't  say  it,  but  y'  meant  it.  I  don't  know 
what  y'  call  doin'  my  part,  Ethan  Ripley ;  but  if  cookin'  for 
a  drove  of  harvest  hands  and  thrashin'  hands,  takin'  care  o' 
the  eggs  and  butter,  'n'  diggin'  taters  an'  milkin'  ain't  my 
part,  I  don't  never  expect  to  do  my  part,  'n'  you  might  as 
well  know  it  fust 's  last.  I  'm  sixty  years  old,  an'  I  've  never 
had  a  day  to  myself,  not  even  Fourth  o'  July.  If  I  've  went 
a-visitin'  'r  to  a  picnic,  I  've  had  to  come  home  an'  milk,  'n' 
it  was  just  so  in  Davis  County.  For  twenty-three  years, 
Ethan  Eipley,  I  've  stuck  right  to  the  stove  an'  churn  without 
a  day  or  a  night  off.  And  now  I  'm  a-goin'  back  to  Yaark 
State." 

"  But  how  y'  goin' t'  raise  the  money  ?  I  ain't  got  no  extra 
cash  this  time.  Agin  Eoach  is  paid,  an'  the  interest  paid,  we 
ain't  got  no  hundred  dollars  to  spare,  Jane,  not  by  a  jugful." 

"  \Val,  don't  you  lay  awake  nights  studyin'  on  w^here  I  'm 
a-goin'  to  get  the  money." 

"  Come,  Tewky,  you  better  climb  the  wooden  hill,"  Mrs. 
Eipley  said,  a  half-hour  later,  to  the  little  chap  on  the  floor, 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  39 

who  was  beginning  to  get  drowsy  under  the  influence  of  his 
grandpa's  fiddling.  "  Pa,  you  had  orter  'a  put  that  string  in 
the  clock  to-day  —  on  the  'larm  side  the  string  is  broke,"  she 
said,  upon  returning  from  the  boj^s  bedroom.  "  I  orter  git 
up  early  to-morrow,  to  get  some  sewin'  done.  Lord  knows,  I 
can't  fix  up  much,  but  they  is  a  little  1  c'n  do.  I  want  to  look 
decent." 

They  were  alone  now,  and  they  both  sat  expectantly. 

"  You  'pear  to  think,  mother,  that  I  'm  agin  yer  goin'." 

"  Wal,  it  would  kinder  seem  as  if  y'  had  n't  hustled  yerself 
any  t'  help  me  git  off." 

"  Wal,  I  'm  just  as  willin'  you  should  go  as  I  am  for  my- 
self;  but  if  I  ain't  got  no  money  I  don't  see  how  I  'm  goin' 
to  send  —  " 

"  I  don't  want  ye  to  send ;  nobody  ast  ye  to,  Ethan  Eipley. 
I  guess  if  I  'd  had  what  I  've  earnt  since  we  came  on  this 
farm  I  'd  have  enough  to  go  to  Jericho  with." 

"  You  've  got  as  much  out  of  it  as  I  have.  You  talk  about 
your  goin'  back.  Ain't  I  been  wantin'  to  go  back  myself? 
And  ain't  I  kept  still  'cause  I  see  it  wa'n't  no  use  ?  I  guess 
I  've  worked  jest  as  long  and  as  hard  as  you,  an'  in  storms  an' 
in  mud  an'  heat,  ef  it  comes  t'  that." 

"  Waal,  if  you  'd  'a  managed  as  well  as  I  have,  you  'd  have 
some  money  to  go  with.  Come,  put  up  that  squeakin'  old 
fiddle,  and  go  to  bed.  Seems  as  if  you  orter  have  sense 
enough  not  to  set  there  keepin'  everybody  in  the  house 
awake." 

"  You  hush  up ;  I  '11  come  when  I  get  ready  and  not  till. 
I  '11  be  glad  when  you  're  gone  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  warrant  that." 

With  which  amiable  good-night  they  went  off  to  sleep,  or 
at  least  she  did,  while  he  lay  awake,  pondering  on  "  where 
under  the  sun  she  was  goin'  t'  raise  that  money." 

Having  plenty  of  time  to  think  matters  over,  he  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  old  woman  needed  a  play-spell. 
"  I  ain't  likely  to  be  no  richer  next  year  than  I  am  this  one; 
if  T  wait  till  J  'm  able  to  send  her,  she  won't  never  so." 

The  next  night  as  Mrs.  liipley  was  clearing  tlie  dishes 
away,  she  got  to  thinking  about  the  departure  of  the  next  day, 
and  she  began  to  soften.  She  gave  way  to  a  few  tears  when 
little  Tewksbury  Gilchrist,  her  grandson,  came  up  and  stood 
beside  her. 

*'  Gran'ma,  you  ain't  goin'  to  stay  away  always,  are  yeh  ?  " 


40  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  Why,  of  course  not,  Tewky.    What  made  y'  think  that  ?  " 

"Well,  y'  ain't  told  us  nawthin'  't  all  about  it.  An'  yeh 
kind  o'  look 's  if  yeh  was  mad." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  mad ;  I  'm  jest  a-thinkin',  Tewky.  Y'  see  I 
come  away  from  them  hills  when  I  was  a  little  girl  a'most; 
before  I  married  y'r  grandad.  And  I  ain't  never  been  back. 
'Most  all  my  folks  is  there,  sonny,  an'  we  've  been  s'  poor  all 
these  years  I  could  n't  seem  t'  never  git  started.  Now  when 
I  'm  'most  ready  t'  go,  I  feel  kind  o'  queer  —  's  if  I  'd  cry." 

Eipley  came  in  with  a  big  armful  of  wood,  which  he  rolled 
into  the  wood-box  with  a  thundering  crash. 

"  It 's  snowin'  like  all  p'sessed.  I  guess  we  '11  have  a  sleigh- 
ride  to-mori-ow.  I  calc'late  t'  drive  y'  daown  in  scrumptious 
style.  If  you  must  leave,  why,  we  '11  give  yeh  a  whoopin'  old 
send-off.  Won't  we,  Tewky  ?  An'  I  was  tellin'  Tewky  t'-day 
that  it  was  a  dum  shame  our  crops  had  n't  turned  out  better. 
An'  when  I  saw  ol'  Hatfield  go  by  I  hailed  him,  an'  asked 
him  what  he  'd  gimme  for  two  o'  ma  shoats.  Wal,  the  upshot 
is,  I  sent  t'  town  for  some  things  I  ealc'lated  you  'd  need. 
An'  here's  a  ticket  to  Georgetown,  and  ten  dollars.  Why, 
ma,  what 's  up  ?  " 

Mrs.  Eipley  dashed  into  the  bedroom,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
returned  with  a  yarn  mitten,  tied  around  the  wrist,  which  she 
laid  on  the  table  with  a  thump,  saying :  "  I  don't  want  yer 
money.  There 's  money  enough  to  take  me  where  I  want  to 
go."  ' 

"  Thunder  and  scissors !  Must  be  two  or  tliree  hundred 
dollars  there." 

"  They 's  jest  seventy-five  dollars  and  thirty  cents ;  jest 
about  enough  to  go  back  on.  Tickets  is  fifty-five  dollars, 
goin'  an'  comin'.  That  leaves  twenty  dollars  for  other  ex- 
penses, not  countin'  what  I  've  already  spent,  which  is  sixty- 
five.    It's  plenty." 

"  But  y'  ain't  ealc'lated  on  no  sleepers  nor  hotel  bills." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  on  no  sleeper.  Mis'  Doudney  says  it 's  jest 
scandalous  the  way  things  is  managed  on  them  cars.  I  'm 
goin'  on  the  old-fashioned  cars,  where  they  ain't  no  half- 
dressed  men  runnin'  around.  As  for  the  hotel  bills,  they 
won't  be  none.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  pay  them  pirates  as  much 
for  a  da/s  board  as  we  'd  charge  for  a  week's,  and  have 
nawthin'  to  eat  but  dishes.  I  'm  goin'  to  take  a  chicken 
an'  some  hard-boiled  eggs,  an'  I'm  goin'  right  through  to 
Georgetown." 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  41 

"  Well,  all  right,  mother ;  but  here 's  the  ticket  I  got." 

"  I  don't  want  yer  ticket." 

"  But  you  've  got  to  take  it.    They  won't  take  it  back." 

"  Wal,'^if  they  won't  —  I  s'pose  I '11  have  to  use  it."  And 
that  ended  it. 

They  were  a  familiar  sight  as  they  rode  toward  town  next 
day. 

^Irs.  Eipley  wore  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  carried  her 
queer  little  black  bonnet  in  her  hand.  Tewksbury  was  also 
wrapped  in  a  shawl. 

"  Now  remember,  Tewky,  have  grandad  kill  that  biggest 
turkey  night  before  Thanksgivin',  an'  then  you  run  right 
over  to  Mis'  Doudney's  —  she  's  got  a  nawful  tongue,  but  she 
can  bake  a  turkey  first  rate  —  an'  she  '11  fix  up  some  squash 
pies  for  yeh.  You  can  warm  up  one  o'  them  mince  pies.  I 
wish  ve  could  go  with  me;  but  ye  can't,  so  do  the  best  ye 
can."" 

One  cold,  windy,  intensely  bright  day,  Mrs.  Stacey,  who 
lives  about  two  miles  from  Cedarville,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow, saw  a  queer  little  figure  struggling  along  the  road,  wliich 
was  blocked  here  and  there  with  drifts. 

"  Why !  it 's  Gran'ma  Eipley,  just  getting  back  from  her 
trip.  Vfhy !  how  do  you  do  ?  Come  in.  Why !  you  must  be 
nearly  frozen.    Let  me  take  ofl:'  your  hat  and  veil." 

"  No,  thanlc  ye  kindly,  but  I  can't  stop.  I  must  be  gittin' 
back  to  Eipley.  I  expec'  that  man  has  jest  let  ev'rything  go 
six  ways  f'r  Sunday.  Jest  kind  o'  stow  them  bags  away. 
I  '11  take  two  an'  leave  them  three  others.  Good-bye.  I 
must  be  gittin'  home  to  Eipley.  He  '11  want  his  supper  on 
time." 

And  oft'  up  the  road  the  indomitable  little  figure  trudged, 
head  held  dowTi  to  the  cutting  blast.  Little  snow-fly,  a  speck 
on  a  measureless  expanse,  crawling  along  with  painful  breath- 
ing and  slipping,  sliding  steps  —  "  Gittin'  home  to  Eipley  an' 
the  boy." 

Eipley  was  out  to  the  barn  when  she  entered,  but  Tewks- 
bury was  building  a  fire  in  the  old  cook-stove.  He  sprang  up 
with  a  cry  of  joy,  and  ran  to  her.  She  seized  him  and  kissed 
him,  and  it  did  her  so  much  good  she  hugged  him  close,  and 
kissed  him  again  and  again,  crj'ing  hysterically. 

"  Oh,  gran'ma,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  We  've  had  an 
awful  time  since  you  've  been  gone." 


42  SELECTED   READINGS 

She  released  him,  and  looked  around.  A  lot  of  dirty  dishes 
were  on  the  table,  the  table-cloth  was  a  "  sight  to  behold  "  (as 
she  afterwards  said) ,  and  so  was  the  stove  —  kettle-marks  all 
over  the  table-cloth,  splotches  of  pancake  batter  all  over  the 
stove. 

When  Eipley  came  in  she  had  her  regimentals  on,  the  stove 
was  brushed,  the  room  was  swept,  and  she  was  elbow-deep  in 
the  dish-pan.    "  Hullo,  mother  !    Got  back,  hev  ye  ?  " 

"  I  sh'd  say  it  was  about  time,"  she  replied  curtly,  without 
looking  up  or  ceasing  to  work.  "  Has  oF  Grumpy  dried  up 
yit  ?  "    This  was  her  greeting. 

Her  trip  was  a  fact  now;  no  chance  could  rob  her  of  it, 
and  now  she  could  look  back  at  it  accomplished.  She  took  up 
her  burden  again,  never  more  thinking  to  lay  it  down. 

Hamlin  Garland. 

Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 

A    RED-HAIRED    CUPID* 

HOW  did  I  come  to  get  myself  disliked  down  at  the 
Chanta  Seechee  ?  Well,  I  '11  tell  you.  The  play  came 
up  like  this.  First,  they  made  the  Chanta  Seechee  into  a 
stock  company,  then  the  stock  company  put  all  their  brains 
in  one  tliink,  and  says  they,  "  We  '11  make  this  man  Jones 
superintendent,  and  the  ranch  is  all  right  at  once."  So  out" 
comes  Jones  from  Boston,  Massachusetts;  and  what  he 
didn't  know  about  running  a  ranch  was  common  talk  in 
the  country,  but  what  he  thought  he  knew  about  running  a 
ranch  was  too  much  for  one  man  to  carry  around.  He 
was  n't  a  bad-hearted  feller  in  some  ways,  yet  on  the  whole 
he  felt  it  was  an  honor  to  a  looking-glass  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  reflecting  him.  Looking-glass  ?  I  should  say  he  had ! 
And  a  bureau,  and  a  boot-blacking  Jigger,  and  a  feather  bed, 
and  curtains,  and  truck  in  his  room.  Strange  fellers  used 
to  open  their  eyes  when  they  saw  that  room.  "  Hello-o-o ! 
they  'd  say,  "  whose  little  birdie  have  we  here  ?  " 

Well,  the  next  thing  after  Jonesy  got  established  was  that 
his  niece  must  come  out  during  vacation  and  pay  him  a 
visit.  "  Jeerusalem !  "  thinlvs  I,  "  Jonesy's  niece !  "  I  had 
visions  of  a  thin,  yaller,  sour  little  piece,  with  mouse-colored 
hair  plastered  down  on  her  head,  and  an  unkind  word  for 
everybody.     I  can  stand  'most  any  kind  of  a  man,  but  if 

*  By  permission  of  the  McClure  Co.    Copyright,  1901,  by  the  S.  S.  McClure  Co, 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  43 

there  is  anything  that  makes  the  tears  come  to  my  eyes  it 's 
a  botch  of  a  woman.  I  know  they  may  have  good  quali- 
ties and  all  that,  but  I  don't  like  'em,  and  that 's  the  whole 
of  it.  I  was  elected  to  take  my  buckboard  and  drive  twenty 
miles  to  the  railroad.  I  didn't  mind  the  going  out,  but 
that  twenty  miles  back  with  Jonesy's  niece !  Say,  I  foamed 
like  a  soda-water  bottle  when  I  got  into  the  bull-pen  and 
told  the  boys  my  luck. 

"  Well,  I  '11  give  that  Eastern  blossom  an  idea  of  the 
quality  of  this  country,  anyhow,"  thinks  I.  So  I  togs  myself 
up  in  the  awf ullest  rig  I  could  find ;  strapped  two  cartridge 
belts  to  me,  every  hole  filled,  and  a  gun  in  every  holster ;  put 
candle-grease  on  my  mustache  and  twisted  the  ends  up  to 
my  eye-winkers;  stuck  a  knife  in  my  hatband  and  another 
in  my  boot ;  threw  a  shotgun  and  a  rifle  in  the  buckboard, 
and  pulled  out  quick  through  the  colt-pens  before  Jonesy 
could  get  his  peeps  onto  me. 

Well,  sir,  I  was  jarred  witless  when  I  laid  my  eyes  on  that 
young  woman.  I  had  my  mind  made  up  so  thorough  as  to 
what  she  must  be  that  the  facts  knocked  me  cold.  She  was 
the  sweetest,  handsomest,  healthiest  girl  I  ever  saw.  It  would 
make  you  believe  in  fairy  stories  again  just  to  look  at  her. 
She  was  all  the  things  a  man  ever  wanted  in  this  world 
rolled  up  in  a  prize  package.  Tall,  round,  and  soople,  lim- 
ber and  springy  in  her  action  as  a  thoroughbred,  and  with 
something  modest  yet  kind  of  daring  in  her  face,  that  would 
remind  you  of  a  good,  honest  boy.  Eed,  white,  and  black 
were  the  colors  she  flew.  Hair  and  eyes  black,  cheeks  and 
lips  red,  and  the  rest  of  her  white.  Now,  there 's  a  pile  of 
difference  in  them  colors;  when  you  say  "red,"  for  in- 
stance, you  ain't  cleaned  up  the  subject  by  a  sight.  My 
top-knot 's  red,  but  that  was  n't  the  color  of  Loys's  cheeks. 
No;  that  was  a  color  I  never  saw  before  nor  since.  A 
rose  would  look  like  a  tomater  alongside  of  'em.  Then, 
too,  I  've  seen  black  eyes  so  hard  and  shiny  you  could  cut 
glass  with  'em.  And  again  that  was  n't  her  stylo.  Seems 
like  the  good  Lord  was  kind  of  careless  when  he  built  Jonesy, 
but  when  he  turned  that  girl  out,  he  played  square  with  the 
fambly. 

I  ain't  what  you  might  call  a  man  that 's  easily  dis- 
turbed in  his  mind,  but  1  know  I  says  to  myself  that  first 
day,  "  If  I  was  ten  year  3^ounger,  young  lady,  they'd  never 
lug  you  back  East  again."     Gee,  man!     There  was  a  time 


44  SELECTED   READINGS 

when  I  'd  have  pulled  the  country  up  by  the  roots  but  I  'd 
have  had  that  girl !  I  notice  I  don't  fall  in  love  so  violent 
as  the  years  roll  on. 

Well,  I  was  plumb  disgusted  with  the  fool  way  I  'd  rigged 
myself  up,  but,  fortunately  for  me,  Darragh,  the  station-man, 
come  out  with  the  girl.  "  There 's  Eeddy,  from  your  ranch 
now,  ma'am,"  says  he,  and  when  he  caught  sight  of  me, 
"  What 's  the  matter,  Eed ;    are  the  Injuns  up  ?  " 

"  They  ain't  up  exactly,  but  it  looked  as  if  they  were  a 
leetle  on  the  rise,  and  being  as  I  had  a  lady  to  look  out  for, 
I  thought  I  'd  play  safe." 

The  color  kind  of  went  out  of  the  girl's  cheeks. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  not  start?" 

I  stepped  up  to  her,  with  my  hat  in  my  hand.  "  Miss 
Andree,"  says  I,  "  if  you  come  along  with  me  I  '11  guaran- 
tee you  a  safe  journey.  If  any  harm  reaches  you,  it  will 
be  after  one  of  the  liveliest  times  in  the  history  of  the 
Territory." 

At  this  she  laughed.  "  Very  well,  I  '11  chance  it,  Mr. 
Eed." 

"  His  name  ain't  Eed,"  put  in  Darragh,  solemn.  "  His 
name 's  Saunders.    We  call  him  Eed  becus  uf  his  hair." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Miss  Loys,  all  of  a 
fluster. 

"  That 's  all  right,  ma'am ;  no  damage  done  at  all.  It 's 
useless  for  me  to  conceal  the  fact  that  my  hair  is  a  little  on 
the  auburn.  Now  hop  in,  and  we  '11  touch  the  breeze."  So 
I  piled  her  trimlv  in  and  away  we  flew. 

Bud  and  Dandy  were  a  corking  little  team.  They  were 
snorting  and  pulling  grand,  the  buckboard  bouncing  behind 
'em  like  a  rubber  ball. 

"  Goodness  gracious ! "  says  the  girl,  "  do  you  always  go 
like  this  in  this  country  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  no,"  says  I.  "  Hike  !  "  and  I  snapped  the  black- 
snake  over  the  ponies'  ears,  and  they  strung  themselves  out 
like  a  brace  of  coyotes,  nearly  pulling  the  buckboard  out 
from  under  us.  "  Sometimes  we  travel  like  this.  You  're 
not  afraid,  are  j^ou  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  'm  not.    I  think  it 's  glorious.    Might  I  drive  ?  " 

"  If  I  can  smoke,"  says  I,  "  then  you  can  drive."  I  'd 
heard  about  young  women  who  'd  been  brought  up  so  tender 
that  tobacker  smoke  would  ruin  their  morals  or  something, 
and  I  kind  of  wondered  if  she  was  that  sort. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS  45 


"That's  a  bargain,"  says  she  prompt;  '"but  how  you're 
going  to  light  a  cigar  in  this  wind  I  don't  see." 

"  Cigarette,"  says  I.  "  And  if  you  would  kindly  hold  my 
hat  until  I  get  one  rolled  I  'd  take  it  kind  of  you." 

She  held  my  hat  for  a  wind-break,  and  I  got  my  paper 
pipe  together.  And  then  —  not  a  match.  I  searched  every 
pocket.  Not  a  lucifer.  That  is  more  of  what  I  got  for  being 
funny  and  changing  my  clothes.  And  then  she  happened 
to  think  of  a  box  she  had  for  travelling,  and  fished  it  out  of 
her  grip. 

"  Young  lady,"  I  says,  "  until  it  comes  to  be  your  bad 
luck  —  which  I  hope  won't  ever  happen  —  to  be  very  much 
in  love  with  a  man  who  won't  play  back,  you  '11  never  properly 
know  the  pangs  of  a  man  that 's  got  all  the  materials  to 
smoke  with  except  the  fire.  Now,  if  I  have  a  chance  to  do  as 
much  for  you  sometime,  I  'm  there." 

She  laughed  and  crinkled  up  her  eyes  at  me.  "  All  right, 
Mr.  Saunders."  She  blushed  real  nice.  I  like  to  see  a  woman 
blush.     It 's  a  trick  they  can't  learn. 

But  I  see  she  was  put  out  by  my  easy  talk,  so  I  gave  her 
a  pat  on  the  back  and  says,  "  Don't  mind  me,  little  girl !  We 
fellers  see  an  eighteen-carat  woman  so  seldom  that  it  goes 
to  our  heads.     Let's  shake  hands." 

So  she  laughed  again  and  shook.  I  mean  shook.  It 
was  n't  like  handing  you  so  much  cold  fish  —  the  way  some 
women  shake  hands.  And  Loys  and  me,  we  were  full  pards 
from  date. 

Well,  I  don't  have  to  mention  that  Loys  stirred  up  things 
considerable  around  the  Chanta  Seechee  and  vicinity.  Gee ! 
What  a  diving  into  wannegans  and  a  fetching  out  of  good 
clothes  there  was,  and  trading  of  useful  coats  and  things 
for  useless  but  decorating  silk  handkerchiefs  and  things ! 
And  what  a  hair-cutting  and  whisker-trimming ! 

But  Kyle  was  the  man  from  the  go  in.  And  it  was  right 
it  should  be  so.  If  ever  two  young  people  were  born  to  make 
trouble  for  each  other  it  was  Kyle  and  Loys.  He  was  'most 
as  good-looking  for  a  man  as  she  was  for  a  woman.  They 
made  a  pair  to  draw  to,  I  tell  you,  loping  over  the  prairie, 
full  of  health  and  youngness!  You  wouldn't  want  to  see 
a  prettier  sight  than  they  made. 

Well,  things  went  as  smooth  and  easy  as  bob-sledding 
until  it  came  time  for  Loys  to  be  moseying  back  to  college 
again.     Then  Kyle  took  me  into  liis  confidence.     I  never 


46  SELECTED   READINGS 

was  less  astonished  in  my  whole  life,  and  I  did  n't  tell 
him  so. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  says  I. 

He  kind  of  groaned  and  shook  his  head.  "  I  dunno," 
says  he.    "  Do  you  think  she  likes  me,  Eed  ?  " 

"  Well,  about  that  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  say  anything." 

"  Think  so  ?  "  says  he,  bracing  up.  And  then,  by-and-by, 
they  went  out  to  ride.  They  came  back  at  sunset,  when  the 
whole  world  was  glowing  red  the  same  as  they  were.  I 
reached  for  the  field  glasses  and  took  a  squint  at  them. 
There  was  no  harm  in  that,  for  they  were  well-behaved 
young  folks.  One  look  at  their  faces  was  enough.  There 
were  three  of  us  in  the  bull-pen  —  Bob  and  AVind-Eiver 
Smith  and  myself.  We  'd  brought  up  a  herd  of  calves  from 
Nanley's  ranch,  and  we  were  taking  it  easy.  "  Boys,"  says 
I,  under  my  breath,  "  they  've  made  the  riffle." 

"  No !  "  says  they,  and  then  everybody  had  to  take  a  pull 
at  the  glasses. 

"  Well,  I  'm  glad,"  says  Smithy.  And  darn  my  buttons 
if  that  old  hardshell's  voice  did  n't  shake.  "  They  're  two 
of  as  nice  kids  as  you  'd  find  in  many  a  weary  day.  And 
I  wish  'em  all  the  luck  in  the  world." 

"  So  do  I,  and  I  really  think  the  best  we  could  do  for  "em 
woidd  be  to  shoot  Jones." 

"  Let 's  go  out  and  meet  'em ! "  And  away  we  went. 
They  weren't  a  particle  surprised.  I  suppose  they  thought 
the  whole  universe  had  stopped  to  look  on.  We  pump- 
handled  away  and  laughed,  and  Loys  she  laughed  kind  of 
peart,  and  Kyle  he  looked  red  in  the  face  and  proud  and 
happy  and  shamed  of  himself,  and  we  all  felt  loosened  up 
considerable ;  but  I  told  him  on  the  quiet,  "  Take  that  fool 
grin  off  your  face,  unless  you  want  Uncle  Jones  to  drop 
the  moment  he  sees  you." 

Now  they  only  had  three  days  left  to  get  an  action  on 
them,  as  that  was  the  time  set  for  Loys  to  go  back  to  college. 
Next  day  they  held  a  council  behind  the  big  barn,  and  they 
called  in  Uncle  Eed,  otherwise  known  as  Big  Eed  Saimders. 

"  Skip,"  says  I.  "  Fly  for  town  and  get  married,  and 
come  back  and  tell  Jonesy  about  it.  It 's  a  pesky  sight 
stronger  argument  to  tell  him  what  you  have  done  than 
what  you're  going  to  do." 

They  could  n't  quite  agree  with  that.  They  thought  it  was 
sneaky. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  47 

"  So  it  is,"  says  I.  "  The  first  art  of  war  is  understand- 
ing how  to  make  a  grand  sneak.  If  you  don't  want  to  take 
my  advice  you  can  wait."  That  did  n't  hit  them  just  right 
either. 

"  "What  will  we  wait  for  ?  "  sa3^s  Kyle. 

"  Exercise  —  and  the  kind  you  don't  take  when  you  get 
as  old  and  as  sensible  as  me.  You  're  taking  long  chances, 
both  of  you;  but  it's  just  like  playing  cards,  you  might  as 
well  put  all  your  money  on  the  first  turn,  win  or  lose,  as  to 
try  and  play  system.  Systems  don't  work  in  faro,  nor  love 
affairs,  nor  any  other  game  of  chance.  Be  gone.  Put  your 
marker  on  the  gi-and  raffle.  In  other  words  tal^e  the  first 
horse  to  town  and  get  married.  Ten  chances  to  one  Jonesy 
will  have  the  laugh  on  you  before  the  year  is  out." 

They  decided  that  they'd  thiiLk  it  over  until  next  day, 
but  that  turned  out  to  be  too  late,  for  what  must  Kyle  do 
but  get  chucl^ed  from  his  horse  and  have  his  leg  broke  near 
the  hip?  You  don't  want  to  take  any  love  affairs  onto  the 
back  of  a  bad  horse,  now  you  mark  me ! 

Isow  here  was  a  hurrah !  Loys,  she  dasn't  cry,  for  fear 
of  uncle;  and  Kyle,  he  used  the  sinfullest  language  known 
to  the  tongue  of  man.  'T  was  the  first  time  I  'd  ever  heard 
him  say  anything  much,  but  he  made  it  clear  it  was  n't  be- 
cause he  could  n't. 

"  What  will  we  do,  Ked  ?    What  will  we  do  ?  "  says  he. 

"  Now,"  says  I,  "  don't  bile  over  like  that,  because  it 's 
bad  for  )'our  leg." 

He  cussed  the  leg. 

"  Go  on  and  tell  me  what  we  can  do,"  says  he. 

"  When  you  ask  me  that,  you  've  pulled  the  right  bell. 
I  '11  tell  you  exactly  what  we  '11  do.  I  go  for  the  doctor. 
Savvy?  Well,  I  bring  back  the  minister  at  the  same  time. 
Angevine,  he  loses  the  Jersey  cow  over  in  the  cane-brake, 
and  uncle  and  Angevine  go  hunting  her,  for  not  even  Loys 
is  ace  high  in  uncle's  mind  alongside  that  cow.  The  rest  is 
easy." 

"  Red,  you  're  a  brick  —  you  're  the  best  fellow  alive," 
says  Kyle. 

"  I  've  tried  to  conceal  it  all  my  life,  but  I  knew  it  would 
be  discovered  some  day,"  says  I.  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  'd 
better  break  the  news  to  Loj^s  —  'twould  n't  be  any  more 
than  polite." 

"Oh,  Lord!     I  wonder  if  she'll  be  willing?"  says  he. 


48  SELECTED   READINGS 

She  was  willing  all  right  —  even  anxious.  There  's  some 
women,  and  men  too  for  that  matter,  who  go  through  life 
like  a  cat  through  a  back  alley,  not  caring  a  cuss  for  either 
end  or  the  middle.  They  would  have  been  content  to  wait. 
Not  so  Loys.  She  wanted  her  Kyle,  her  poor  Kyle,  and 
she  wanted  him  quick.  That 's  the  kind  of  people  for  me ! 
Your  cautious  folk  are  all  the  time  falling  down  wells  be- 
cause their  eyes  are  up  in  the  air,  keeping  tabs  so  that  they 
can  dodge  shooting  stars. 

Now,  I  had  a  minister  friend  up  in  town,  Father  Slade 
by  name.  No,  he  was  not  a  Catholic,  I  think.  They  called 
him  "  Father,"  because  it  fitted  him.  His  church  has  a 
steeple  on  it,  anyhow,  so  it  was  no  maverick.  I  knew  the  old 
man  would  do  me  a  favor  if  it  could  be  done,  so  I  pulled 
out  easy  in  my  mind. 

First  place,  I  stopped  at  the  doctor's,  because  I  felt  they 
might  fix  up  the  marrying  business  some  other  time,  but  if 
a  leg  that 's  broke  in  the  upper  joint  ain't  set  right,  3'ou  can 
see  a  large  dark-complected  hunk  of  trouble  over  the  party's 
left  shoulder  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  The  doctor  was  out, 
so  I  left  word  for  him  what  was  wanted,  and  to  be  ready 
when  I  got  back,  and  pulled  for  Father  Slade's.  The  old 
gentleman  had  the  rheumatism  and  he  groaned  when  I 
come  in. 

"  Dear !  dear !  "  says  he.  "  The  hurry  and  skurry  of  young 
folks  !  How  idle  it  seems  when  you  get  fifty  years  away  from 
it,  and  see  how  little  anything  counts !  For  all  that,  I  thank 
God,"  says  he,  "  that  there  's  a  little  red  left  in  my  blood  yet, 
which  makes  me  sympathize  with  them.  But  the  girl's 
people  object,  3^ou  say  ?  " 

I  made  that  all  clear  to  him.  "  The  girl 's  always  all 
right,  Father,"  says  I,  "  and  as  for  the  man  in  this  case, 
my  word  for  him." 

"  Give  me  your  arm  to  the  wagon."'  He  put  his  arm  on 
my  shoulder  and  hobbled  his  weight  off  the  game  leg.  "  Per- 
haps you  'd  better  pick  me  up  and  carry  me  bodily." 

When  we  reached  the  ranch  the  boys  were  lined  up  to  meet 
us.  "  Hurr}'  along !  "  they  called.  "  Angey  can't  keep  uncle 
amused  all  day  !  " 

So  we  hustled.  Kyle  was  for  being  married  first,  and  then 
having  his  leg  set,  but  I  put  my  foot  down  flat.  It  had 
gone  long  enough  now,  and  I  was  n't  going  to  have  him 
crippling  it  all  his  life.     But  the  doctor  worked  like  a  man 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  49 

who  gets  paid  by  the  piece,  and  in  less  than  no  time  we 
were  able  to  call  Loys  in. 

\Ye  'd  got  settled  to  business  when  in  comes  Angevine, 
puffing  like  a  buffalo.  "  For  Heaven's  sakes !  Ain't  you 
finished  yet  ?  "  says  he.  "  Well,  you  want  to  be  at  it,  for  the 
old  man  ain't  over  two  minutes  beliind  me,  coming  fast." 

Well,  sir,  at  this  old  Father  Slade  stood  right  up,  for- 
getting that  foot  entirely. 

"  Children,  be  read}',"  says  he,  and  he  went  over  the  lino 
for  a  record. 

"  Hurry  there !  "  hollers  old  Bob  from  the  outside,  where 
he  was  on  watch ;  "  here  comes  uncle  up  the  long  coulee !  " 

"  ^Aliat  are  your  names  ?  "  says  Father  Slade.  They  told 
them,  both  red'ning. 

"  Do  you,  Kyle,  take  this  woman,  Loys,  to  have  and  keep 
track  of,  come  hell  or  high  water,  her  heirs  and  assigns  for 
ever  ?  "  —  or  such  a  matter  —  says  he,  all  in  one  breath. 
They  both  said  they  did. 

Things  flew  till  we  came  to  the  ring.  There  was  a  hitch. 
AYe  had  plumb  forgotten  that  important  article.  For  a 
minute  I  felt  stingy;  then  I  cussed  myself  for  a  mean  old 
long-horn,  and  dived  into  my  box. 

"  Here,  take  this !  "   I  says ;  "  it  was  my  mother's  !  " 

"  Oh,  Eed !  You  must  n't  part  with  that !  "  cried  Loys, 
her  eyes  filling  up. 

"  Don't  waste  time  talking ;  I  put  through  what  I  tackle. 
Hurry,  please.  Father." 

"  Has  anybody  any  objections  to  these  proceedings  ? " 
says  he. 

"  I  have,"  says  I,  "  but  I  won't  mention  'em.  Give  them 
the  verdict." 

"  I  pronounce  you  man  and  wife.    Let  us  pray,"  says  he. 

"What's  that?"  screeches  Uncle  Jonesy  from  the  door- 
way. And  then  he  gave  us  the  queerest  prayer  you  ever 
heard  in  your  life.  He  stood  on  one  toe  and  clawed  chunks 
out  of  the  air  while  he  delivered  it. 

He  seemed  to  have  it  in  for  me  in  particular.  "  You 
villain !  You  rascal !  You  red-headed  rascal !  You  did 
this  !     I  know  you  did  !  " 

"  Oh,  uncle ! "  says  I,  "  forgive  me !  Go  up  and  con- 
gratulate 'em." 

"  I  won't.  Ouch  !  Yes,  I  will !  I  will !  "  So  up  he  goes, 
grinding  his  teeth. 

4 


50  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  I  wish  you  every  happiness." 

"  Won't  you  forgive  me,  uncle  ?  "  begs  Loys. 

"  Some  other  time,  some  other  time !  "  he  hollers,  and  he 
pranced  out  of  the  house  Uke  a  hosstyle  spider,  the  maddest 
little  man  in  the  Territory. 

The  rest  of  Loys's  folks  was  in  an  unpleasant  frame  of 
mind  too.  Howsomever  the  whole  outfit  came  round  in 
time. 

Henry  Wallace  Phillips. 

Abridged  ly  Anna  Morgan. 

THE    MAKING    OF    A    COMEDIENNE 

From  "Felicity" 

PEOBABLY  only  one  thing  could  have  kept  Phineas 
Morton  in  Millville  all  Summer,  but  that  thing  hap- 
pened: he  fell  ill  before  he  had  been  vn\X\  his  daughter  a 
week.  During  his  convalescence  the  interminable  days  were 
chiefly  beguiled  by  Felicity.  The  child  was  completely  fas- 
cinated by  Phineas  and  he  found  her  the  winsomest  thing 
he  had  ever  known. 

Day  after  day,  the  old  man  and  the  little  girl  sat  together 
and  held  converse  about  things  he  knew  and  things  she 
knew  and  things  that  never  were  on  land  or  sea.  As  for  her, 
nothing  was  of  sufficient  charm  to  take  her  away  from  this 
wondrous  being  who  dreamed  her  dreams ;  who  knew  equally 
well  about  the  hobgoblins  and  Queen  Mary,  and  who  under- 
stood perfectly  when  you  told  him  how  hard  it  was  to  keep 
from  laughing  in  church  because  the  precentor  looked  so 
much  like  the  Cheshire  Cat  in  that  entrancing  "  Alice  in 
Wonderland." 

"  I  tell  you,  that  play-actor 's  no  fit  company  for  a  child," 
said  Jane  Fergus,  when  Felicity  had  obediently  given  ac- 
count of  herself  since  dinner, 

"  I  can't  see  that  he 's  doing  her  a  bit  of  harm,"  Amelia 
retorted. 

"  You  '11  not  see  it  till  it 's  too  late  to  mend."  And  Fe- 
licity wondered  till  she  was  weary  what  irreparable  harm 
could  come  to  her  through  Mr.  Morton,  and  why  gran'ma 
could  not  be  made  to  feel  as  she  felt  his  fascinations. 

She  Avas  coming  early  through  her  first  experience  of  that 
universal  distress  in  which  we  battle  with  the  prejudice  of 
our  powers  that  be  against  our  dearest  enchantment.     No 


PROSE    SELECTIONS  51 

one  of  us,  presumably,  grows  to  maturity  without  sufTering 
some  degree  of  the  resentment  that  comes  when  ruthless 
hands  try  to  break  the  bonds  of  our  willing  thraldom  and 
set  us  free  when  we  are  wishful  only  to  stay  bound. 

Meditating  on  the  strange  perversity  of  gran'ma  and 
wishing  delicacy  did  not  forbid  her  asking  Mr.  Morton  about 
it,  Felicity  slipped  from  her  chair  when  permission  was 
granted,  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  fill  in  a  too  brief 
interval  before  evening  prayers. 

Zilianne,  who  had  been  her  nurse  while  she  needed  one, 
now  filled  the  office  of  cook.  In  the  course  of  the  supper 
hour  she  had  gone  into  her  pantry  and  found  a  mouse-trap 
sprung  and  a  tiny,  long-sought  culprit  inside. 

Felicity  greeted  the  mouse  with  eager  interest. 

"  Oh,  what  you  goin'  to  do  with  him,  Zilly  ?  " 

"  Sho'  gwine  ter  drown  'im,  honey,  he  bin  a-eatin'  mah 
cohn-meal;  now  I'se  ketched  'im  I'se  gwine  mek  'im  sorry 
fer  'is  sins." 

"  He  's  sorry  now." 

"  Not  so  sorr}'  as  he  'm  gwine  ter  be." 

"  Please  don't,  Zilly  —  please  don't  drown  him !  Give 
him  to  me  an'  I  '11  carry  him  mi— iles  away,  where  he  can't 
ever  get  back  any  more." 

"  How  kin  I  gi'  'im  ter  you  ?  You  ain't  think  I'se  gwine 
ter  let  you  traipse  off  wid  mah  onlies'  mice-trap,  is  you? 
I  sho'  would  n'  nevah  see  hit  agin." 

"  Give  him  to  me  in  a  little  box,  then.    Wait  —  " 

Felicity  was  upstairs  and  down  again  in  a  twinkling, 
bringing  with  her  a  small  pasteboard  box  hastily  emptied 
of  some  doll-rag  hoardings. 

"  Put  him  in  here,  please,  and  I  '11  carry  him  a-wa-ay  off." 

So  Zilianne  put  the  box  down  close  to  the  trap  and  lifted 
the  wire  door,  then  clapped  the  box  cover  on  and  handed 
over  the  reprieved,  with  many  cautions. 

"  First  I  must  poke  holes  in  his  housey,  so  he  can  breathe. 
And  then  I  must  put  him  in  some  supper,  so  he  won't  starve." 

"  Ain't  gwine  ter  starve  tcr-night,  he  des'  bustin'  full  o' 
yo'  gran'ma's  cheese  an'  meal." 

"Well,  le 's  put  him  in  a  piece  for  brcakfas';  maybe  he 
won't  know  how  to  find  breakfas',  far  away  like  I  'm  goin' 
to  take  him." 

The  cheese  thus  eloquently  bogged  was  scarcely  crammed 
through  the  air  holes  —  somewhat  to  the  exclusion  of  air  — 


52  SELECTED   READINGS 

when  the  call  to  prayers  was  sounded  peremptorily  from  the 
sitting-room. 

Felicity  meant  to  keep  "  Mr.  Mouse  "  until  the  morning ; 
it  was  asking  too  much  of  human  nature  to  expect  she  would 
give  him  up  sooner. 

To  prayers,  therefore,  went  Mr.  Mouse  —  which  was  no 
more  than  proper  after  his  narrow  escape  from  the  destroyer 
—  and  in  his  queerly  riddled  cardboard  home  was  stealthily 
deposited  in  the  obscurest  comer  of  the  sitting-room,  beyond 
which  comer,  if  the  truth  be  told,  Felicity's  thoughts  did  not 
once  soar  during  the  Scripture  reading  and  hymn-singing. 
Then  gran'ma,  looking  over  the  top  of  her  spectacles  at  Fe- 
licity, asked  solemnly: 

"What  is  sin?" 

Felicity  started  guiltily  as  she  thought  of  Mr.  Mouse. 

"  Sin  is  any  want  of  comformity  unto  or  transgression  of 
the  law  of  God." 

It  was  strange  that  gran'ma's  evening  question,  selected  at 
random  from  "  The  Shorter  Catechism "  to  keep  Felicity 
from  forgetting  any  of  it,  should  have  proved  so  disconcert- 
ing. But  Felicity,  who  knew  in  a  way  what  the  big  words 
meant,  assured  herself  that  if  keeping  a  poor  little  mouse 
overnight  was  any  want  of  cojwformity  unto  or  transgression 
of  the  law  of  God,  she  'd  never  been  told  so. 

She  was  so  thinking  as  she  knelt  while  gran'ma  prayed, 
when  there  was  a  shrill  scream,  the  prayer  came  abruptly  to 
an  end,  and  she  jumped  up  to  find  gran'ma  shaking  her 
voluminous,  crinolined  skirts  excitedly  and  crying,  "  Scat ! 
Scat!" 

For  a  moment  Felicity  was  scared;  her  gran'ma's  panic 
was  so  very  real.  But  when  Mr.  Mouse  had  been  shaken 
down  and  had  made  good  his  escape,  she  burst  into  gleeful 
laughter  and  laughed  until  she  cried  —  at  which  gran'ma 
was  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  indignant. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked  the  culprit  sternly. 

"  Please,  gran'ma,  it  was  so  funny !  " 

"  Everything  is  funny  to  you,  it  seems.  That 's  what 
comes  of  association  with  a  buffoon." 

"What's  that?" 

"  A  buffoon  is  a  person  who  sees  nothing  but  fun  in  the 
misfortunes  of  others." 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  was  a  misfortune,  gran'ma.  I  was 
just  thinking  Mr.  Mouse  must  be  —  be  so  surprised.     He 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  58 

must  'a'  thought  he  was  in  the  bigges'  trap  in  the 
world ! " 

"  Did  you  turn  him  loose  in  here  ?  " 

"  No  'm ;  I  was  keepin'  him  tight,  an'  he  must  'a'  got  out." 

"  He  very  certainly  did.  But  what  I  find  most  fault  with 
is,  not  the  fright  you  gave  me,  but  your  disrespectful  enjoy- 
ment of  my  distress.  If  I  had  behaved  so  at  your  age,  I 
should  have  been  punished  terribly." 

"  Could  n't  you  ever  laugh  ?  " 

"  I  never  laughed  at  my  elders  —  that 's  sure." 

"  Mr.  Morton  says  God  likes  folks  to  laugh  whenever  they 
can." 

"  And  what,  if  you  '11  tell  me,  does  Mr.  Morton  know  about 
God?" 

"  Oh,  a  lot !    He  told  me." 

"  I  don't  doubt !  He  '11  make  an  atheist  of  you  before  he  's 
through.  I  can  see  now  that  you  discount  your  church  and 
home  teachings  by  what  he  says,  and  I  '11  have  no  more  of  it 
—  this  trafficking  with  evil-doers.  You'll  keep  away  from 
that  man  in  the  future  —  mark  my  words !  Amelia  may  let 
you  go  to  the  devil,  but  I  '11  not  stand  by  and  be  a  party  to  it. 
I  'm  your  keeper  before  God,  whether  your  father  made  me 
such  or  not.  You  're  my  son's  child,  and  I  '11  save  your  soul 
for  you  if  I  can." 

Felicity  began  to  cry  and  Amelia  told  her  to  go  upstairs. 

"  I  told  you  all  this  would  come  of  letting  her  act  in  plays 
and  spend  her  time  with  mummers,"  said  Jane  Fergus. 

"  And  I  say  that 's  all  antediluvian  bigotry,"  retorted 
Amelia,  "  and  that  it 's  a  great  privilege  for  Felicity  to  have 
the  companionship  of  a  man  like  Mr.  Morton." 

"  It 's  a  privilege  she  '11  have  to  forego,  then,  as  long  as 
she 's  under  my  roof." 

Encouraged  by  her  rebelhon  much  as  a  child  is  encouraged 
when  he  omits  his  prayers  and  meets  no  cataclysmic  conse- 
quences, Amelia  retreated  in  good  order,  her  cheeks  flushed 
and  her  mouth  as  determinedly  set  as  her  mother's.  She 
made  no  reply  to  her  mother's  ultimatum;  she  wanted  the 
night  to  think  it  over.  But  she  was  not  cowed,  and  she 
knew  it. 

Upstairs,  Felicity  was  waiting  to  be  "  unbuttoned  in  the 
back  "  and  to  have  her  silken-fine,  fair  hair  done  up  in  rag 
curlers. 

When  the  bedtime  preparations  were  completed  and  the 


54  SELECTED   READINGS  j 

little  night-gowned  figure  was  outstretched  in  the  small  bed 
beside  Amelia's  own,  the  woman  who  was  finding  vent  thus  ; 
belatedly  for  her  maternal  passion,  on  a  child  not  her  own, 
sat  down  in  the  dark  by  the  wide-open  window,  to  look  out  : 
into  the  summer  night  —  and  to  make  the  great  decision  of  \ 
her  life.  . 
Life,  in  so  far  as  it  held  that  expectancy  which  makes  life  < 
worth  living,  was  over  for  her.    For  herself  she  could  enter-  | 
tain  no  more  eagerness,  dream  no  more  dreams  —  could  an-  j 
ticipate  only  release.    And  that,  before  she  had  lived  at  all ! 
No,  no.    It  must  not  be !    God  never  mocked  one  so.    He  had  ] 
given  her  this  child,  this  wonderful  child,  to  live  in;    they 
would  realize  together,  she  and  Felicitv  —  '• 
It  was  midnight  when  she  crept  to  bed  to  finish  a  restless  ' 
night.  I 
Eecalled  to  that  pitiless  knowledge  of  her  situation  which  i 
she  had  mercifully  forgotten  for  awhile  in  sleep,  Amelia  sat  i 
up,  conscious  of  keen  regret  that  it  was  day  so  soon.  ! 
Felicity  backed  up  to  have  her  little  petticoats  buttoned,  j 
and  Amelia,  when  she  had  done  this,  took  the  child  by  the  \ 
shoulders  and  wheeled  her  around,  facing  her ;   looking  deep  ! 
into  the  brown  eyes  as  if  searcliing  for  an  answer  in  their  | 
velvety  depths,  she  asked :  1 
"  Felicitv,  would  vou  like  to  be  an  actress  ?  "                       .  ' 
"  How  could  I  ?    I  'm  so  little."  j 
''  They  have  little  girls,  sometimes.    Mr,  Morton  has  little  ■ 
girls  in  his  plays.     I  think  maybe  if  we  ask  him  he  '11  take  j 
you  to  play  with  him  right  now,  and  then  when  you  're  grown  ' 
up  you  might  be  celebrated  like  he  is."  ' 
"What  is  celerbated?"  | 
"  It 's  being  famous,  well  known  —  having  ever  and  ever  ' 
so  many  people  like  you,  and  when  you  play  they  go  to  see  | 
you  and  applaud,  and  you  make  lots  of  money  and  travel  all 
over  the  world,  and  everywhere  you  go  people  Icnow  about  5'ou 
and  tr}^  to  do  lovely  things  for  you,  and  you  meet  other  cele- 
brated people  —  kings  and  queens,  sometimes  —  and  gi'eat  I 
writers  and  painters  and  musicians;    and  everybody  envies 
you  and  wishes  they  were  in  j'our  place,  instead  of  feeling  j 
sorry  for  you  because  you  've  never  called  your  soul  your  ] 
own."                                "                                    "  i 
"  I  'd  like  that.     I  'd  like  it  fine !     But  gran'ma !     She  ) 
would  n't  let  us."  I 
"  No,"  agreed  Amelia,  soberly,  "  she  would  n't.    But  would  I 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  55 

you  do  it  anywa)'  ?  I  mean  would  you  want  to  ?  If  gran'ma 
would  n't  let  you,  but  I  would,  would  you  go  ?  " 

"  What  would  gran'ma  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  turn  us  out,  I  suppose  —  certainly  refuse 
to  speak  to  us  for  a  long,  long  time." 

"  I  woidd  n't  like  that." 

"  Neither  would  I,  but  if  you  want  to  do  great  things  you 
have  to  do  hard  things  first." 

"  Would  gran'ma  be  mad  for  keeps  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  she  might,  I  can't  tell." 

"  Would  n't  it  be  wicked  to  make  her  that  mad?  " 

"  If  you  always  ask  yourself  what  your  gran'ma  will  think, 
every  time  you  want  to  do  anything,  you  '11  never  get  any- 
thing done !  That 's  what  I  did,  and  there  was  never  a  thing 
I  wanted  to  do  that  I  did  n't  give  it  up  because  she  'd  be  mad 
if  I  did  it.  Now,  you  sha'n't  begin  that  way.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?  You  sha'n't  do  it.  Give  me  your  hand  and  come  to 
breakfast ;  there  's  the  bell."  And  hand  in  hand  the  rebels 
descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  dining-room. 

Jane  Fergus  was  sitting  at  a  window  in  the  dining-room, 
reading  her  morning  paper. 

Amelia,  holding  Felicity  by  the  hand,  stood  before  her 
mother,  a  mixture  of  fear  and  defiance  in  her  attitude. 

"  Mother,  I  have  something  very  —  very  important  to  tell 
you." 

A  curious  ring  in  Amelia's  voice  made  Jane  Fergus  lay 
down  her  paper. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  feel  the  way  you  do  about  Mr.  Morton,  but 
he  thinks  Felicity  has  a  talent  for  acting;  he  says  its  devel- 
opment should  begin  now.  I  know  you  won't  approve,  but 
I  can't  help  it;  I  'm  going  to  see  if  he  will  take  her  on  the 
stage.  If  he  does  it  will  be  a  wonderful  chance  for  her.  I  — 
she  wants  to  go  and  I  —  I  think  we  ought  not  to  stand  in  her 
way." 

Jane  Fergus  ignored  her  daughter  and  fixed  her  searching 
gaze  on  Felicity. 

"  Is  this  tnje?    Are  you  wanting  to  go  ?  " 

Felicity  looked  from  the  compressed  mouth  and  keen  eyes 
before  her,  to  the  compressed  mouth  and  unflinching  eyes 
above  her.  She  wanted  to  cry,  to  fling  her  arms  about 
her  gran'ma's  neck  and  say  she  would  never  be  an  act- 
ress—  never!     But  something  in  Amelia's  face  restrained 


56  SELECTED   READINGS 

her  and  she  choked  down  the  lump  in  her  throat  and 
answered : 

"  Yes  'm." 

"  This  is  your  doing,"  said  Jane  Fergus,  turning  to 
Amelia.  "  To  satisfy  your  own  wicked  ambition  you  traffic 
this  child's  soul  to  the  devil.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  Her 
blood  be  upon  your  head !  " 

With  this  terrible  pronouncement  she  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles, folded  them  into  their  case,  and  left  the  room. 

There  was  no  breakfast  eaten  in  the  Fergus  household  that 
morning. 

After  two  years  on  the  stage  Felicity  had  begun  to  lengthen 
out  to  that  spindling  awkwardness  which  promised  well  for 
the  future  but  made  her  impossible  for  child  parts.  When 
this  time  came  Phineas  persuaded  Amelia  to  put  the  child 
in  a  boarding  school  in  western  Massachusetts. 

To  school  Felicity  went,  while  Amelia  took  a  small  house 
in  Salem  and  acquired  a  cat,  and  sat  down  by  her  swept  and 
lonely  hearth  to  wait  the  passing  of  the  years  until  Felicity 
should  be  with  her  again. 

The  Hilldale  School  for  Girls  was  in  the  Berkshires;  it 
was  in  charge  of  the  Eeverend  Henry  Candee  Tutwiler. 

Felicity  was  looked  upon  with  no  little  suspicion  when  her 
application  for  entrance  was  filed.  The  stage  was  rank  in  the 
nostrils  of  the  Eeverend  Tutwiler,  and  he  feared,  moreover, 
that  a  majority  of  his  patrons  would  be  incensed  if  their  off- 
spring were  brought  in  contact  with  a  child  of  the  theatre. 

Amelia  was  enraged,  and  Felicity  would  never  have  gone 
to  the  Hilldale  School  for  Girls  had  not  the  Eeverend  Tut- 
wiler weakened  when  he  heard  of  Felicity's  strictly  orthodox 
upbringing,  and  had  not  Amelia  weakened  when  it  was 
pointed  out  to  her  that  girls^  schools  inspired  by  a  large  world- 
wisdom  and  presided  over  by  a  fine  catholic  spirit,  were  so 
scarce  that  if  she  insisted  on  such  a  one.  Felicity  bade  fair 
to  live  and  die  uneducated. 

So,  early  in  September,  Amelia  took  her  to  Hilldale  and 
left  her. 

Every  month  she  went  to  spend  Saturday  and  Sunday  with 
Felicitv,  but  the  intervals  between  seemed  interminable ;  they 
were  great  voids,  marked  only  by  Felicity's  letters. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  57 

"  Dear,  darling,  preshus  Aunt  Elie,  I  perfecly  abbominate 
this  place.  You  ought  to  see  what  they  call  appel  sauce  it  is 
pieces  of  appel  floting  a  round  in  swetish  water.  When  any- 
thing is  the  matter  with  you  Mrs.  Tutwiler  comes  and  says  its 
nothing  and  tells  how  many  things  has  been  the  matter  with 
her  and  Mr.  Tutwiler  and  how  brave  they  allways  were.  Ive 
cried  every  night  since  you  left  me  hear  and  Mrs.  Tutwiler 
says  when  she  was  my  age  she  cried  becaus  there  was  no 
school  for  her  to  go  to.  I  don't  see  why  she  tells  me  such 
things  becaus  I  don't  beleave  them.  Can't  you  write  them 
a  letter  for  me  not  to  learn  arithmetick  I  don't  see  any  sense 
in  it. 

"  Your  darling  child, 

Felicity  Fergus." 

"  P.S.  —  Mrs.  Tutwiler  says  is  Felicity  all  the  name  youve 
got.    I  'm  glad  none  of  my  name  is  Tutwiler." 

Gradually,  however,  the  joys  of  companionship  began  to 
balance  Mrs.  Tutwiler  and  the  "  appel  sauce." 

"  Thear  is  a  girl  hear  named  Eosalie  Beech  she  has  seen  me 
act.  She  is  a  very  nice  girl.  Some  of  the  girls  seam  awful 
stupid  they  know  thear  lessons  but  they  never  been  any  place. 
They  think  I  'm  wonderfull  becaus  Ive  been  so  many  places. 
They  havent  read  much  either  their  is  a  big  girl  that  never 
heard  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  she  says  she  ain't  had  Scotch 
histry  yet  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  Letter  number  three 
was  superbly  sarcastic.  "  It  seams,"  this  letter  read,  "  that 
its  kind  of  a  crime  to  laugh  hear.  Im  being  kept  in  my  room 
this  whole  lovely  long  Saturday  becaus  I  laughed  last  night. 
You  see  Fridays  we  have  a  funny  thing  that 's  called  the  ele- 
gunt  deportmunt  class  we  ware  our  best  dresses  and  have  a 
kind  of  play  although  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tutwiler  do  not  aprove 
of  pla3's.  The  kind  of  play  we  had  was  that  Mr.  Tutwiler 
was  the  president  of  U.  S.  and  Mrs.  Tutwiler  was  Mrs.  Grant 
and  the  teachers  was  cabinut  ladys  and  we  had  to  go  in  and 
act  like  we  was  at  the  white  House  it  was  awfull  funny.  Mr. 
Tutwiler  didnt  do  right  at  all  he  called  me  madam  so  grand 
at  least  I  guess  he  thought  it  was  grand  and  I  told  him  when 
I  was  at  the  real  white  House  the  president  Grant  called  me 
chicken.  Mrs.  Tutwiler  was  so  funny  I  nearly  died  laughing 
and  just  for  that  I  got  sent  to  my  room  to  stay  till  Sunday. 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  ever  stay  in  a  school  whear  its  a  crime 


58  SELECTED   READINGS 

to  laugh.    When  I  go  home  111  show  you  how  they  did  and 
see  if  you  dont  think  its  awful!  funny." 

Amelia  sent  this  letter  to  Phineas,  who  laughed  over  it  till 
he  cried.  He  was  to  be  in  Philadelphia  at  the  holiday  time 
and  he  invited  Amelia  to  bring  Felicity  and  join  him  there. 

"  Well,  pardner,"  Phineas  said  to  Felicity,  "  I  guess  we 
can  make  a  comedienne  out  o'  you,  all  right.  You  seem  to 
have  the  stuff  in  you.  But  you  've  a  long,  hard  row  to  hoe  if 
you  're  going  to  develop  it. 

"  Now  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do :  If  you  work  hard  at 
school  until  June  and  learn  what  you  can  —  if  you  don't  like 
their  deportment,  see  if  you  can't  leam  io  like  the  way  they 
spell  —  I  '11  take  you  to  Europe  in  the  summer.  Come,  now, 
what  do  you  say  ?    Is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

It  was,  and  they  sealed  it  with  a  kiss. 

Clara  E.  Laughlin. 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

A    SOCIAL    PROMOTER* 

COLONEL  ABEL  GINN  mopped  his  brow  and  glared  at 
nobody  in  particular  and  went  on : 

"  Here  I  am  —  a  self-made  man ;  self-made  and  remod- 
elled as  rapidly  as  was  necessary  to  keep  up  with  the  times. 
I  invent  a  ginger  snap  that  never  loses  its  freshness ;  I  'm 
just  as  much  a  benefactor  of  humanity  as  if  I  wrote  poetry 
or  painted  pictures  or  carved  statues.  I  'm  an  artist,  all  right 
enough,  when  you  get  to  the  truth  of  the  matter.  I  did  n't 
corner  anything  but  my  own  common  sense.  I  worked  as 
hard  as  anybody  ever  did;  hard  enough  to  make  up  for  the 
fact  that  I  have  n't  time  to  waste  looking  up  a  string  of  an- 
cestors. I  make  my  pile.  I  come  here  and  buy  a  half -block 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  best  district.  I  rip  out  the  old 
buildings  on  that  half-block  and  I  put  up  a  marble  palace 
that  would  have  n.arle  Julius  Csesar  howl  with  joy.  And  then 
my  wife  can't  understand  why  we  aren't  taken  into  society. 
I  can't,  either." 

Leyburn  smiled  pleasantly.  He  had  a  way  of  always  smil- 
ing at  the  right  time.  He  always  smiled  mth  Ginn,  never  at 
him. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  what 's  the  best  way  to  go  about 
it?" 

*  Published  in  Harper's  Magazine,  1908.    Copyright,  Harper  &  Brothers. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  59 

"  I  believe  the  custom  is  to  get  some  letters  of  introduction 
and  become  acquainted  gradually,"  Leyburn  replied. 

"  Tried  all  that,"  Colonel  Ginn  said.  "  Had  plenty  of  let- 
ters. Presented  them.  Not  much  force.  Leyburn,  you  've 
been  in  society  —  hang  it !  you  're  in  it  yet  if  you  want  to  be. 
There  ought  to  be  a  short  cut." 

"  Some  folks  have  broken  in  through  eccentricities  —  but 
you  are  not  eccentric.  And,  really.  Colonel,  the  game  is  n't 
worth  the  candle." 

"  I  've  got  plenty  of  candles.  Say !  "  He  leaned  across  the 
table  and  smiled.    "  I  've  got  it.    I  '11  advertise." 

"Advertise?" 

"  Sure.  How  did  I  make  a  success  of  Ginn's  Ginger  Snaps  ? 
Advertising.  You  remember  that  long  before  you  were  on 
my  pay-roll  there  was  something  doing  that  made  people  real- 
ize they  could  n't  keep  house  without  my  ginger  snaps  ?  " 

"  I  remember.  That  was  great  advertising.  But  ginger 
snaps  and  getting  into  society  are  two  different  propositions, 
Colonel." 

"  Advertising  is  the  same  thing,  no  matter  what  you  adver- 
tise.   I  '11  show  them  a  few  kinks  they  never  dreamed  of." 

Colonel  Ginn  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  gnawed  his  cigar,  and 
presently  handed  Leyburn  the  following,  scrawled  in  the 
vigorous  chirography  of  the  man  who  made  ginger  snaps  for 
the  wide  world: 

"  Col.  Abel  Ginn,  president  of  Ginn's  Ginger  Snap  Cor- 
poration, has  built  the  finest,  most  beautiful  residence  in  the 
city.  It  occupies  the  sites  of  four  famous  old  Colonial  man- 
sions on  Bent  Street.  It  cost  him  four  millions  to  put  up 
and  another  million  to  decorate.  The  paintings  and  furni- 
ture can't  be  duplicated,  or  even  imitated.  Col.  Ginn  is  going 
to  have  a  housewarming  in  the  form  of  a  dinner  dance  next 
Wednesday  night.  The  Biltneys,  the  Cross-Fillinghams,  the 
Schoolers,  and  all  the  leaders  of  society  will  be  invited.  Col. 
Ginn  will  welcome  them  with  open  arms." 

Leyburn  read  it  over  twice,  then  looked  up. 

"  Get  that  in  every  paper  to-morrow,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  But  the  society  columns  will  not  print  —  " 

"Who's  talking  about  society  columns?  I  want  that  set 
in  thirty- two-point  type  across  three  columns  and  half  a  page 
deep.    Same  space  we  use  for  the  ginger  snaps." 

"  Had  n't  you  better  give  this  a  little  more  thought. 
Colonel  ?  " 


60  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  If  I  think  it  over  again  I  '11  do  something  worse." 

The  advertisement  created  excitement.  Some  of  the  papers 
got  out  extras,  and  put  the  advertisement  on  the  first  page  in 
spite  of  their  rules.  Reporters  came  to  interview  the  Colonel, 
but  Leybum  warded  them  off.  This  was  easy,  because  the 
Colonel  did  not  come  to  his  offices  until  late  in  the  day. 

"  Say,  Leyburn,"  he  began  as  soon  as  he  came  in,  "  you 
should  have  been  at  my  house  this  morning.  I  got  more  crit- 
icism than  the  author  of  a  play.  Mrs.  Ginn  said  I  was 
making  a  laughing  stock  of  us.  I  told  her  we  were  almost 
that  normally,  and  it  was  up  to  us  to  choose  what  sort  of 
laughing  stock  we  would  be." 

"  Just  so." 

"  But  the  funniest  part  is  Laura.  Instead  of  being  angry 
over  it,  she  is  half  way  between  hurt  and  tickled.  Takes  after 
me.  Don't  care  a  rap  for  the  society  game  either,  but  I  be- 
lieve she  agrees  with  me  that  now  I  'm  in  for  it  I  'd  best  play 
the  game  out." 

"  Another  advertisement  ?  "  asked  Leyburn. 

"  Not  to-day.  Never  overplay  advertising  after  you  've 
made  your  impression.    Wait  for  results." 

Colonel  Ginn  stopped  at  the  door  of  his  office  and  called 
back: 

"  Get  your  invitation  ?  I  told  Laura  to  send  3^ou  one. 
Hope  you  can  come.  I  've  got  cigars  and  things  in  my  room 
for  jovL  and  me,  if  we  want  to  get  off  by  ourselves." 

It  is  as  well  to  pass  lightly  over  that  housewarming.  Col- 
onel Ginn  said  grimly,  late  in  the  evening,  that  this  was  the 
first  time  in  his  life  advertising  had  not  paid.  He  was  about 
to  say  more  to  himself,  when  Leybum  was  announced. 

"  Hello,  Leybum !  Make  yourself  at  home.  You  've  prac- 
tically got  the  whole  house  to  yourself,  if  you  don't  count  the 
servants  and  that  gang  of  Hungarians  sawing  fiddles  behind 
the  palms.    What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  " 

"  Beautiful.    It 's  the  first  time  I  've  seen  it,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  mean  the  house.    I  mean  the  party." 

"  Well,  you  know,  just  now  every  one  in  society  is  terribly 
busy,  and  —  " 

"  And  I  'm  getting  the  busy  signal." 

Colonel  Ginn  led  the  way  to  his  wife  and  daughter.  In- 
stead of  the  fat  and  florid  dame  and  gawky  girl  Leyburn  had 
feared  to  meet,  he  saw  a  tall,  slender  woman,  with  motherly 
blue  eyes,  and  beside  her  a  stately  young  woman  of  grace  and 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  61 

self-possession,  perfectly  gowBed,  and  winsomely  good- 
looking.  He  found  it  easy  to  talk  with  Laura.  A  few  guests 
came,  and  their  chat  was  interrupted,  but  one  bantering 
speech  of  Laura's  lingered  in  Leyburn's  memory  next  day.  It 
was: 

"  You  will  enjoy  the  dinner  to-night ;  we  won't  serve 
ginger  snaps." 

And  next  morning  he  gasped  when  he  saw  this  spread 
across  three  half-columns  of  the  paper  he  bought  on  the  way 
downtowTi : 

"  Colonel  Abel  Ginn  entertained  an  exclusive  number  of 
guests  at  his  palatial  marble  residence  on  Bent  Street  last 
night.  The  Schoolers,  the  Cross-Fillinghams,  the  Milvanes, 
and  others  of  the  leaders  of  society  were  absent.  They  missed 
it.  Colonel  Ginn,  who  is  president  of  the  Ginn  Ginger  Snap 
Corporation,  is  planning  a  few  more  fetes  and  functions  that 
are  calculated  to  rattle  the  dry  bones  of  arbitrary  restrictions. 
It  may  be  well  to  watch  for  his  next  announcement." 

"  I  sent  that  copy  to  the  papers  late  last  night,"  the  Col- 
onel explained  to  Leyburn.  "  Only  two  of  them  printed  it. 
The  others  said  it  was  too  late  to  receive  advertisements." 

Leyburn  breathed  more  freely  after  a  week  had  passed 
with  no  further  advertisement  experiments  by  the  Colonel. 
Once  during  that  time  he  had  called  at  the  Ginn  palace  and 
had  spent  an  hour  with  Laura.  He  carefully  avoided  mention 
of  the  advertising,  as  there  were  other  subjects  to  discuss. 
When  he  rose  to  go  she  laughed  : 

"  When  are  you  and  papa  going  to  print  another  invitation 
in  the  papers  ?  " 

"I  —  really  —  I  don't  know." 

"  Mr.  Leyburn,  if  papa  wants  to  go  in  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  I  wish  —  " 

"  I  would  discourage  him?    Certainly,  I  —  " 

"  No,  indeed.  Help  him  all  you  can.  I  've  known  him 
longer  than  you  have,  and  I  know  that  when  he  sots  liis  head 
or  his  heart  on  anything  he  '11  get  it,  if  he  must  fight  day 
and  night.  Papa  is  all  right.  I 've  alwaj's  believed  in  him 
—  and  I  'm  going  to  keep  right  on." 

Naturally,  Leyburn  vowed  unfailing  allegiance  to  the 
Colonel. 

That  is  why  he  expressed  approval  of  the  next  advertise- 
ment, which  road  : 

"  Colonel   Abel   Ginn,    inventor   and   purveyor   of   Ginn's 


62  SELECTED   READINGS 

Ginger  Snaps,  who  owns  wliat  is  conceded  to  be  the  hand- 
somest home  in  the  city,  will  once  more  throw  open  that 
palatial  place  to  society.  Next  Wednesday  night  he  will  give 
a  musicale.  Nobbelik  will  play,  and  Nelbica  and  the  three 
de  Euspkes  will  sing.  In  addition  to  these,  Dnmrich's  entire 
orchestra  will  render  a  classic  and  popular  programme. 
There  will  be  a  little  supper.  The  menu  comprises  every 
meat,  bird,  fruit,  fish,  and  vegetable  that  is  out  of  season 
here.  If  anything  has  been  overlooked  that  will  gladden  the 
eye,  please  the  ear,  or  tempt  the  palate  Colonel  Ginn  would 
like  to  know  of  it.  Invitations  have  been  sent  to  the  Cjoss- 
Fillinghams,  the  Schoolers,  the  Biltneys,  and  all  of  the  other 
three  hundred  and  ninety-seven.  Colonel  Ginn  docs  n't  care 
a  rap  about  getting  into  society.  He  is  doing  this  be- 
cause a  principle  is  involved.  He  does  his  part:  the  ques- 
tion is.  Will  society  do  its  part?  The  affair  will  begin 
along  about  ten  o'clock  and  will  last  until  the  guests  are 
satisfied." 

"  By  ginger !  "  the  Colonel  declared,  "  If  I  can  make  the 
Esquimau  and  the  Hottentot  believe  he  cannot  live  without 
my  ginger  snap,  then  I  can  make  society  believe  life  is  a 
hollow  mockery  if  it  does  n't  know  my  house." 

This  advertisement  started  the  tidal  wave  of  editorial  and 
other  conmient.  Colonel  Ginn's  picture  was  in  demand  in 
the  newspaper  offices.  The  text  of  the  advertisement  was 
cabled  to  Europe  and  it  was  alleged  that  it  was  commented 
upon  by  royalty  and  nobilitv^  Nay,  more.  It  was  stated  that 
kings  and  queens  instructed  their  purveyors  to  send  Ginn's 
ginger  snaps  to  their  palaces.  When  all  the  world  shakes, 
society  feels  the  quiver. 

Mrs,  Cross-Fillingham  cancelled  her  engagements  for  that 
evening  and  went  in  state  to  Ginn's,  and  society  filed  in  her 
wake.  It  was  a  living  society  column  that  marched  through 
the  doors  and  clasped  the  hand  of  Colonel  Abel  Ginn. 

"  We  fetched  'em,"  Ginn  whispered  to  Leyburn,  in  a  cor- 
ner not  far  from  the  madding  crowd.  "  Mrs.  Cross-Filling- 
ham is  here,  hyphen  and  all,  large  as  life  and  twice  as  natu- 
ral. The  Biltneys,  the  Schoolers,  the  Perronbys  —  all  of  'em 
are  here." 

Leyburn  looked  dumbly  over  the  crowd.  Ginn  was  right. 
There  was  Mrs.  Cross-Fillingham  flicking  a  jewelled  hand  at 
him.  Here  and  there  others  of  his  acquaintance  nodded,  or 
called  jovially  to  him.    He  edged  through. 


PROSE    SELECTIONS  63 

"  "Well,  Laurence  Leybum !  "  chirped  Mrs.  Cross-Filling- 
ham.  "  Where  ever  have  3'ou  been  hiding  ?  And  is  n't  this 
the  dearest,  most  delightful  little  affair  you  ever  knew? 
Fancy  finding  you  on  earth  again !  And,  oh,  Miss  Ginn,  I 
am  so  happy  your  dear,  deliciously  absurd  papa  has  given  us 
all  this  chance  to  know  you." 

So  it  was  chirp  and  chatter  and  chatter  and  chirp  for  the 
next  hour,  one  after  the  other  praising  everything  and  every- 
body, and  Colonel  Ginn  tossing  back  repartee  as  though,  to 
quote  Pudgy  Futter,  the  wit  of  society,  "  he  were  full  of  his 
own  ginger  snaps." 

After  that  night  Leyburn  was  discontented  and  preoccu- 
pied. The  Ginns  had  been  caught  into  the  whirl  and  he  found 
Laura  not  at  home  an  astonishingly  high  percentage  of  the 
times  he  called.  In  the  end  he  tore  a  leaf  from  her  father's 
book. 

"  I  am  going  to  advertise  for  something,"  he  told  her. 

"  I  wish  you  success,"  she  smiled. 

"  I  'm  going  to  advertise  for  a  wife." 

"  How  silly !  But  then  you  have  been  a  successful  adver- 
tiser, have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Just  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  It  begins  to  look  as  though,  if  I  want  to  see  you  long 
enough  to  propose  to  you,  I  '11  have  to  announce  it  through 
the  papers,  because  I  never  find  you  to  —  " 

"  How  absurd !  I  'm  right  here  now.  So  propose, 
Laurence." 

At  the  end  of  that  year  Colonel  Abel  Ginn  said  to  his  new 
son-in-law : 

''  Laurence,  the  sales  of  Ginn's  ginger  snaps  have  about 
doubled  this  past  year.    Advertising,  done  right,  pays." 

"  It  does,"  quickly  agreed  Leyburn. 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit. 

A    TALE    OF    OLD    MADRID* 

DOLORES  had  prepared  no  speech  with  wliich  to  appeal 
to  the  King,  and  she  had  not  counted  upon  her  own 
feeling  toward  him  when  she  found  herself  in  the  room  where 
Mendoza  had  been  questioned,  and  heard  the  door  close  behind 

•  From  "  In  the  Palace  of  the  King,"  by  F.  Marinn  Crawford.     Copyrighlid  bu 
The  MacmilUin  Company. 


64  SELECTED   READINGS 

her  b)^  the  chamberlain  who  had  announced  her  coming. 
She  stood  still  a  moment,  dazzled  by  the  brilliant  lights  and 
the  magnificent  tapestries  which  covered  the  walls  with  glow- 
ing colors.  Everywhere  in  the  room  there  were  rich  objects 
that  caught  and  reflected  the  light,  things  of  gold  and  silver, 
of  jade  and  lapis  lazuli,  in  a  sort  of  tasteless  profusion  that 
detracted  from  the  beauty  of  each,  and  made  Dolores  feel 
that  she  had  been  suddenly  transported  out  of  her  own  ele- 
ment into  another  that  was  hard  to  breathe  and  in  which  it 
was  bad  to  live. 

As  she  entered  she  saw  the  King  in  profile,  seated  in  his 
great  chair  at  some  distance  from  the  fire  but  looking  at  it 
steadily.  He  did  not  notice  her  presence  at  first.  His  secre- 
tary, Antonio  Perez,  sat  at  the  table  busily  writing,  and  he 
only  glanced  at  Dolores  sideways  when  he  heard  the  door 
close  after  her.  She  sanli  almost  to  the  ground  as  she  made 
the  first  court  curtsey  before  advancing,  and  came  forward 
into  the  light. 

She  was  very  beautiful,  as  she  stood  waiting  for  him  to 
speak  and  meeting  his  gaze  fearlessly  with  a  look  of  cold  con- 
tempt in  her  white  face,  such  as  no  living  person  had  ever 
dared  to  turn  to  him,  while  the  light  of  anger  burned  in  her 
deep  gray  eyes. 

"  Be  seated.  Dona  Dolores.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come, 
for  I  have  much  to  say  to  you."  Dolores  came  forward  un- 
willingly and  sat  down  very  erect,  with  her  hands  folded  on 
her  knees. 

"  Dolores  is  pale,  —  bring  a  cordial,  Perez,  or  a  glass  of  old 
Oporto  wine." 

"  I  thank  Your  Majesty.     [Quiclchj.]     I  need  nothing." 

"  I  will  be  your  physician.  I  shall  insist  upon  your  taking 
the  medicine  I  prescribe.  Perez,  you  may  go  and  take  some 
rest.    I  will  send  for  you  when  I  need  you." 

The  secretary  rose,  bowed  low,  and  left  the  room.  The 
King  waited  till  he  saw  it  close  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  feel  that  we  are  united  by  a  common  calamity,  my  dear. 
I  intend  to  take  you  under  my  most  particular  care  and  pro- 
tection from  this  very  hour.  I  know  why  you  come  to  me; 
you  wish  to  intercede  for  your  father." 

"  I  ask  justice,  not  mercy,  sire." 

"  Your  father  shall  have  both,  for  they  are  compatible." 

"  He  needs  no  mercy,  for  he  has  done  no  harm.  Your 
Majesty  knows  that  as  well  as  I." 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  65 

"  If  I  knew  that,  my  dear,  your  father  would  not  be 
under  arrest.  I  cannot  guess  what  you  know  or  do  not 
know  —  " 

"  I  know  the  truth." 

"  I  wish  I  did.  But  tell  me  what  you  think  you  Imow 
about  this  matter.  You  may  help  me  sift  it,  and  then  I  shall 
be  the  better  able  to  help  you.    What  do  you  know  ?  " 

{Speaking  in  a  whisper.)  "1  was  close  behind  the  door 
Your  Majesty  wished  to  open.  I  heard  every  word ;  I  heard 
your  sword  cll'a^vn  and  I  heard  Don  John  fall  —  and  then  it 
was  some  time  before  I  heard  my  father's  voice,  taking  the 
blame  upon  himself,  lest  it  should  be  said  that  the  King  had 
murdered  his  own  brother  in  his  room,  unarmed.  Is  that  the 
truth  or  not?  ^Vhen  you  were  both  gone,  I  came  in  and  I 
found  him  dead  with  a  wound  in  his  left  breast,  and  he  was 
unarmed,  murdered  without  a  chance  for  his  life.  There  is 
blood  upon  my  dress  where  it  touched  his  —  the  blood  of  the 
man  I  loved,  shed  by  you.  Ah,  he  was  right  to  call  you 
coward,  and  he  died  for  me,  because  you  said  things  of  me 
that  no  loving  man  would  bear.  He  was  right  to  call  you 
coward  —  it  was  well  said  —  it  was  the  last  word  he  spoke, 
and  I  shall  not  forget  it.  He  had  borne  everything  you 
heaped  upon  himself,  your  insults,  your  scorn  of  his  mother, 
but  he  would  not  let  you  cast  a  slur  upon  my  name,  and  if 
you  had  not  killed  him  out  of  sheer  cowardice,  he  would 
have  struck  you  in  the  face.  Then  my  father  took  the  blame, 
to  save  you  from  the  monstrous  accusation,  and  that  all 
might  believe  him  guilty  he  told  the  lie  that  saved  you  before 
them  all.  Do  I  know  the  truth?  Is  one  word  of  that  not 
true  ?  Confess  that  it  is  true !  Can  you  not  even  find  cour- 
age for  that?  You  are  not  the  King  now,  you  are  your 
brother's  murderer,  and  the  murderer  of  the  man  I  loved, 
whose  wife  I  should  have  been  to-morrow.  Look  at  me,  and 
confess  that  I  have  told  the  truth.  I  am  a  Spanish  woman, 
and  I  would  not  see  my  country  branded  before  the  world 
with  the  shame  of  your  royal  murders,  and  if  you  will  con- 
fess and  save  my  father,  I  mhII  keep  your  secret,  for  my 
country's  sake.  But,  if  not  —  then  you  must  either  kill  me 
here  as  you  slew  him,  or  by  the  God  that  made  you,  and  the 
mother  that  bore  you,  I  will  tell  all  Spain  what  you  arc, 
and  the  man  who  loved  Don  John  of  Austria  shall  rise  and 
take  your  blood  for  his  blood,  though  it  be  blood  royal ;  and 
you  shall  die,  as  you  killed,  like  the  coward  you  are !    Will 

5 


66  SELECTED    READINGS 

you  not  speak?  Then  find  some  weapon  and  kill  me  here 
before  I  go,  for  I  shall  not  wait  till  you  find  many  words." 

The  King  made  no  sound  and  Dolores  moved  toward  the 
door.  Her  hand  was  almost  on  the  door  when  the  King 
raised  himself  by  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  cried  out  to  her 
in  a  frightened  voice : 

"  N"o,  no !  Stay  here  —  you  must  not  go  —  what  do  you 
want  me  to  say  ?  " 

"  Say  I  have  spoken  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  —  it  is  true  —  I  did  it  —  for  God's  mercy  do  not 
betray  me." 

"  That  is  not  all.  That  was  for  me,  that  I  might  hear 
the  worst  from  your  own  lips.  There  is  something  more  I 
want  —  my  father's  freedom  and  safety.  I  must  have  an 
order  for  his  instant  release.  Let  him  come  here  at  once  as 
a  free  man." 

"  That  is  impossible.  He  has  confessed  the  deed  before 
the  whole  court  —  he  cannot  possibly  be  set  at  liberty  with- 
out a  trial.    You  forget  what  you  are  asking." 

"  I  am  not  asking  anything  of  Your  Majesty ;  I  am  dic- 
tating terms  to  my  lover's  murderer." 

"  This  is  past  iDcaring,  girl !  You  are  out  of  your  mind 
—  I  shall  call  servants  to  take  you  away  to  a  place  of  safety. 
We  shall  see  what  you  will  do  then.  You  shall  not  impose 
your  insolence  upon  me  any  longer." 

"  Call  whom  you  will,  you  cannot  save  yourself.  Don 
Euy  Gomez  is  on  the  other  side  of  that  door  and  there  are 
chamberlains  and  guards  there  too.  I  shall  have  told  them 
all  the  truth  before  your  men  can  lay  hands  on  me.  If  you 
will  not  write  the  order  to  release  my  father,  I  shall  go  out 
at  once.  In  ten  minutes  there  will  be  a  revolution  in  the 
palace  and  to-morrow  all  Spain  will  be  on  fire  to  avenge 
your  brother.  Spain  has  not  forgotten  Don  Carlos  yet! 
There  are  those  alive  who  saw  you  give  Queen  Isabel  the 
draught  that  killed  her  —  with  your  own  hand.  Are  you 
mad  enough  to  think  that  no  one  knows  those  things;  that 
your  spies,  who  spy  on  others,  do  not  spy  on  you ;  that  you 
alone  of  all  mankind  can  commit  ever}-  crime  with  impunity  ? 
Beware,  Don  Philip  of  Austria,  King  of  Spain  and  half 
the  world,  lest  a  girl's  voice  be  heard  above  yours,  and  a 
girl's  hand  loosen  the  foundation  of  3'our  throne;  lest  all 
mankind  rise  up  to-morrow  and  take  your  life  for  the  lives 
you  have  destroyed!     Outside  this  door  here,  there  are  men 


PROSE  SELECTIONS  67 

who  guess  the  truth  already,  \7ho  hate  you  as  they  hate  Satan, 
and  who  loved  your  brother  as  every  living  being  loved  him 
—  except  you.  '  One  moment  more  —  order  my  father  to  be 
set  free  or  I  will  open  and  speak.  One  moment !  You  will 
not  ?    It  is  too  late  —  you  are  lost !  " 

Her  hand  went  out  to  open,  but  Philip  was  already  on 
his  feet,  and  with  quick,  clumsy  steps,  he  reached  the  writ- 
ing-table, seized  the  pen  Perez  had  thrown  down,  and  began 
to  scrawl  words  rapidly  in  his  great  angular  handwriting. 
He  threw  sand  upon  it  to  dry  the  ink,  and  then  poured  the 
grains  back  into  the  silver  sand-box,  glanced  at  the  paper, 
and  held  it  out  to  Dolores  without  a  word.  His  other  hand 
slipped  along  the  table  to  a  silver  bell,  used  for  calling  his 
private  attendants,  but  the  girl  saw  the  movement  and  in- 
stinctively suspected  his  treachery. 

"  If  you  ring  that  bell  I  will  open.  I  must  have  the  paper 
here,  where  I  am  safe,  and  I  must  read  it  myself  before  I 
shall  be  satisfied." 

She  took  the  document  from  his  hand,  keeping  her  eyes 
on  his.  For  some  seconds  they  faced  each  other  in  silence. 
At  last  she  allowed  her  eyes  to  glance  at  the  paper.  It  was 
an  order  stating  that  Don  Diego  Mendoza  was  to  be  set  at 
liberty  instantly  and  unconditionally. 

"  l"  humbly  thank  Your  Majesty,  and  take  my  leave,"  she 
said,  throwing  the  door  wide  open  and  curtseying  low. 

A  chamberlain  who  had  seen  the  door  move  on  its  hinges 
stepped  in  to  shut  it,  for  it  opened  inward.  The  King  beck- 
oned liim  in  and  closed  it,  but  before  it  was  quite  shut,  he 
heard  Dolores'  voice. 

"  Don  Euy  Gomez,  this  is  an  order  to  set  my  father  at 
liberty  unconditionally  and  at  once.  Tell  him  from  me 
that  he  is  safe.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me.  Prince ;  let 
me  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  now,  for  we  may  not  meet 
hereafter.    You  will  not  see  me  at  this  court  again." 

F.  Marion  Crawford. 

Adapted  by  Afina  Morgan. 

THE    GIFT    OF    THE    MAGI* 

OXE  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents.    That  was  all.    And 
sixty  cents  of  it  was  in  pennies.     Pennies  saved,  one 
and  two  at  a  time,  by  bulldozing  tiie  grocer  and  the  vegetable 

*  By  permission  of  the  McClure  Co.    Copyrighted,  1906,  by  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 


68  SELECTED   READINGS 

man  and  the  butcher  until  one's  cheeks  burned  with  the  silent 
imputation  of  parsimony  that  such  close  dealing  implied. 
Three  times  Delia  counted  it.  One  dollar  and  eighty-seven 
cents.    And  the  next  day  would  be  Christmas. 

There  was  clearly  notliing  to  do  but  to  flop  down  on  the 
shabby  little  couch  and  howl.  So  Delia  did  it.  Which  insti- 
gates the  moral  reflection  that  life  is  made  up  of  sobs,  sniffles, 
and  smiles,  with  sniffles  predominating. 

MHien  the  mistress  of  the  home  is  gi-adually  subsiding 
from  the  first  stage  to  the  second,  take  a  look  at  the  home. 
A  furnished  flat  at  $8.00  per  week.  It  did  not  exactly  beggar 
description,  but  it  certainly  had  that  word  on  the  lookout 
for  the  mendicancy  squad. 

In  the  vestibule  below  was  a  letter  box  into  which  no 
letter  would  go,  and  an  electric  button  from  wliich  no 
mortal  finger  could  coax  a  ring.  Also  appertaining  there- 
unto was  a  card  bearing  the  name  "  Mr.  James  Dillingham 
Young." 

The  "  Dillingham  "  had  been  flung  to  the  breeze  during 
a  former  period  of  prosperity  when  its  possessor  was  being 
paid  thirty  dollars  per  week.  Now,  when  income  had  shrunk 
to  twenty  dollars,  the  letters  of  "'  Dillingham  "  looked  blur- 
red, as  though  they  were  thinlving  seriously  of  contracting  to 
a  modest  and  unassuming  "  D."  But  whenever  Mr.  James 
Dillingham  Young  came  home  and  reached  his  flat  above  he 
was  called  "  Jim  "  and  greatly  hugged  by  Mrs.  James  Dil- 
lingham Young,  already  introduced  to  you  as  Delia.  Which 
is  all  very  good. 

Delia  finished  her  cry  and  attended  to  her  cheeks  with  the 
powder  rag.  She  stood  by  the  window  and  looked  out  dully 
at  a  gray  cat  walking  a  gray  fence  in  a  gray  back  yard.  To- 
morrow would  be  Christmas  day,  and  she  had  only  $1.87 
with  which  to  buy  Jim  a  present.  She  had  been  saving  every 
penny  she  could  for  months,  with  this  result.  Twenty  dol- 
lars a  week  does  n't  go  far.  Expenses  had  been  greater  than 
she  had  calculated.  They  always  are.  Only  $1.87  to  buy 
a  present  for  Jim !  Her  Jim !  Many  a  happy  hour  she  had 
spent  planning  for  something  nice  for  him.  Something  fine 
and  rare  and  sterling  —  something  just  a  little  bit  near  to 
being  worthy  of  the  honor  of  being  owned  by  Jim. 

There  was  a  pier-glass  between  the  Avindows  of  the  room. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  a  pier-glass  in  an  eight-dollar  fiat.  A 
very  thin  and  agile  person  may,  by  observing  his  reflection  in 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  69 

a  rapid  sequence  of  longitudinal  strips,  obtain  a  fairly  ac- 
curate conception  of  his  looks.  Delia,  being  slender,  had 
mastered  the  art. 

Suddenly  she  whirled  from  the  window  and  stood  before 
the  glass.  Her  eyes  were  shining  brilliantly,  but  her  face 
had  lost  its  color  within  twenty  seconds.  Eapidly  she  pulled 
down  her  hair  and  let  it  fall  to  its  full  length. 

Now,  there  were  two  possessions  of  the  James  Dillingham 
Youngs  in  which  they  both  took  a  mighty  pride.  One  was 
Jim's  gold  watch  that  had  been  his  father's  and  his  grand- 
father's. The  other  was  Delia's  hair.  Had  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  lived  in  the  flat  across  the  air  shaft,  Delia  would  have 
let  her  hair  hang  out  the  window  some  day  to  dry  just  to 
depreciate  Her  Majesty's  jewels  and  gifts.  Had  King  Solo- 
mon been  the  janitor,  with  all  his  treasures  piled  up  in  the 
basement,  Jim  would  have  pulled  out  his  watch  every  time 
he  passed,  just  to  see  him  pluck  at  his  beard  from  envy. 

So  now  I3ella's  beautiful  hair  fell  about  her,  rippling  and 
shining  like  a  cascade  of  bro^vn  waters.  It  reached  below 
her  knees  and  made  itself  almost  a  garment  for  her.  And 
then  she  did  it  up  again  nervously  and  quickly.  Once  she 
faltered  for  a  minute  and  stood  still  while  a  tear  or  two 
splashed  on  the  worn  red  carpet. 

On  went  her  old  brown  jacket;  on  went  her  old  brown 
hat.  With  a  whirl  of  skirts  and  with  the  brilliant  sparkle 
still  in  her  eyes,  she  fluttered  out  the  door  and  down  the 
stairs  to  the  street. 

Where  she  stopped  the  sign  read:  "  Mme.  Sofronie.  Hair 
Goods  of  All  Kinds."  One  flight  up  Delia  ran,  and  col- 
lected herself,  panting.  Madame,  large,  too  white,  chilly, 
hardly  looked  the  "  Sofronie." 

"Will  you  buy  my  hair?"  asked  Delia. 

"  I  buy  hair,"  said  ]\radame.  "  Take  your  hat  off  and 
let 's  have  a  sight  at  the  looks  of  it." 

Down  rippled  the  brown  cascade. 

"  Twenty  dollars,"  said  Madame,  lifting  the  mass  with  a 
practised  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  me  quick,"  said  Delia. 

Oh,  and  the  next  two  hours  tripped  by  on  rosy  wings. 
Forget  the  hashed  metaphor.  She  was  ransacking  the  stores 
for  Jim's  present. 

She  found  it  at  last.  It  surely  luid  boon  made  for  Jim 
and  no  one  else.    There  was  no  other  like  it  in  any  of  the 


70  SELECTED    READINGS 

stores,  and  she  had  turned  all  of  them  inside  out.  It  was  a 
platinum  fob  chain  simple  and  chaste  in  design,  properly 
proclaiming  its  value  by  substance  alone  and  not  by  mere- 
tricious ornamentation  —  as  all  good  things  should  do.  It 
was  even  worthy  of  The  Watch.  As  soon  as  she  saw  it  she 
knew  it  must  be  Jim's.  It  was  like  him.  Quietness  and 
value  —  the  description  applied  to  both.  Twenty-one  dol- 
lars they  took  from  her  for  it,  and  she  hurried  home  with 
the  eighty-seven  cents.  With  that  chain  on  his  watch  Jim 
might  be  properly  anxious  about  the  time  in  any  company. 
Grand  as  the  watch  was,  he  sometimes  looked  at  it  on  the  sly 
on  account  of  the  old  leather  strap  that  he  used  in  place  of 
a  chain. 

When  Delia  reached  home  her  intoxication  gave  way  a 
little  to  prudence  and  reason.  She  got  out  her  curling  irons 
and  lighted  the  gas  and  went  to  work  repairing  the  ravages 
made  by  generosity  added  to  love.  WHiich  is  always  a  tre- 
mendous task,  dear  friends  —  a  mammoth  task. 

Within  forty  minutes  her  head  was  covered  with  tiny, 
close-lying  curls  that  made  her  look  wonderfully  like  a  truant 
schoolboy.  She  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror  long, 
carefully,  and  critically. 

"  If  Jim  does  n't  kill  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  before  he 
takes  a  second  look  at  me,  he  '11  say  I  look  like  a  Coney 
Island  chorus  girl.  But  what  could  I  do  —  oh !  WHiat  could 
I  do  with  a  dollar  and  eighty-seven  cents  ?  " 

At  seven  o'clock  the  coffee  was  made  and  the  frying-pan 
was  on  the  back  of  the  stove  hot  and  ready  to  cook  the  chops. 

Jim  was  never  late.  Delia  doubled  the  fob  chain  in  her 
hand  and  sat  on  the  corner  of  the  table  near  the  door  that 
he  always  entered.  Then  she  heard  his  step  on  the  stair 
away  down  on  the  first  flight,  and  she  turned  white  for  just 
a  moment.  She  had  a  habit  of  saying  little  silent  prayers 
about  the  simplest  everyday  things,  and  now  she  whispered: 
'*'  Please  God,  make  him  think  I  am  still  pretty." 

The  door  opened  and  Jim  stepped  in  and  closed  it.  He 
looked  thin  and  very  serious.  Poor  fellow,  he  was  only 
twenty-two  —  and  to  be  burdened  with  a  family !  He  needed 
a  new  overcoat  and  he  was  without  gloves. 

Jim  stepped  inside  the  door,  as  immovable  as  a  setter  at 
the  scent  of  quail.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Delia,  and 
there  was  an  expression  in  them  which  she  could  not  read, 
and  it  terrified  her.     It  was  not  anger,  nor  surprise,  nor 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  71 

disapproval,  nor  horror,  nor  any  of  the  sentiments  that  she 
had  been  prepared  for.  He  simply  stared  at  her  fixedly  with 
that  peculiar  expression  on  his  face. 

Delia  wriggled  off  the  table  and  went  for  him. 

"  Jim,  darling,"  she  cried,  "  don't  look  at  me  that  way. 
I  had  my  hair  cut  off  and  sold  it  because  I  could  n't  live 
through  Christmas  without  giving  you  a  present.  It  '11  grow 
out  again  —  you  won't  mind,  will  you  ?  I  just  had  to  do  it. 
My  hair  grows  awfully  fast.  Say  '  Merry  Christmas ! '  Jim, 
and  let 's  be  happy.  You  don't  know  what  a  nice  —  what  a 
beautiful,  nice  gift  I  've  got  for  you." 

"  You  've  cut  off  your  hair  ?  "  asked  Jim,  laboriously,  as 
if  he  had  not  arrived  at  that  patent  fact  yet  even  after  the 
hardest  mental  labor. 

"  Cut  it  off  and  sold  it,"  said  Delia.  "  Don't  you  like  me 
just  as  well,  anyhow  ?    I  'm  me  without  my  hair,  ain't  I  ?  " 

Jim  looked  about  the  room  curiously. 

"You  say  your  hair  is  gone?"  he  said,  with  an  air 
almost  of  idiocv. 

"You  needn't  look  for  it,"  said  Delia.  "It's  sold,  I 
tell  you  —  sold  and  gone,  too.  It 's  Christmas  eve,  boy.  Be 
good  to  me,  for  it  went  for  you.  Maybe  the  hairs  of  my 
head  were  numbered,"  she  went  on  with  a  sudden  serious 
sweetness,  "but  nobody  could  ever  count  my  love  for  you. 
Shall  I  put  the  chops  on,  Jim  ?  " 

Out  of  his  trance  Jim  seemed  quickly  to  wake.  He  en- 
folded his  Delia.  For  ten  seconds  let  us  regard  with  discreet 
scrutiny  some  inconsequential  object  in  the  other  direction. 
Eight  dollars  a  week  or  a  million  a  year  —  what  is  the 
difference?  A  mathematician  or  a  wit  would  give  you  the 
wrong  answer.  The  Magi  brought  valuable  gifts,  but  that 
was  not  among  them.  This  dark  assertion  will  be  illumin- 
ated later  on. 

Jim  drew  a  package  from  his  overcoat  pocket  and  threw 
it  upon  the  table. 

"  Don't  make  any  mistake,  Dell,"  he  said,  "  about  me. 
I  don't  think  there  's  anything  in  the  way  of  a  hair  cut  or 
a  shave  or  a  shampoo  that  could  make  me  like  my  girl  any 
less.  But  if  you  will  unwrap  that  package  you  may  see  why 
you  had  me  going  a  while  at  first." 

White  fingers  and  nimble  tore  at  the  string  and  paper. 
And  tben  an  ecstatic  scream  of  joy ;  and  then,  alas !  a  quick 
feminine  change  to  hysterical  tears  and  wails,  necessitating 


72  SELECTED   READINGS 

the  immediate  emplojonent  of  all  the  comforting  powers  of 
the  lord  of  the  flat. 

For  there  lay  The  Combs  —  the  set  of  combs,  side  and  back, 
that  Delia  had  worshipped  for  long  in  a  Broadway  window. 
Beautiful  combs,  pure  tortoise-shell,  with  jewelled  rims  — 
just  the  shade  to  wear  in  the  beautiful  vanished  hair.  They 
were  expensive  combs,  she  knew,  and  her  heart  had  simply 
craved  and  yearned  over  them  without  the  least  hope  of  pos- 
session. And  now,  they  were  hers,  but  the  tresses  that  should 
have  adorned  the  coveted  adornments  were  gone.  But  she 
hugged  them  to  her  bosom,  and  at  length  she  was  able  to  look 
up  with  dim  eyes  and  smile  and  say :  "  My  hair  grows  so  fast, 
JIM ! " 

And  then  Delia  leaped  up  like  a  little  singed  eat  and  cried, 
"  Oh,  oh !  " 

Jim  had  not  yet  seen  his  beautiful  present.  She  held  it 
out  to  him  eagerly  upon  her  open  palm.  The  dull  precious 
metal  seemed  to  flash  with  a  reflection  of  her  bright  and 
ardent  spirit. 

"  Is  n't  it  a  dandy,  Jim  ?  I  hunted  all  over  town  to  find 
it.  You  will  have  to  look  at  the  time  a  hundred  times  a 
day  now.  Give  me  your  watch.  I  want  to  see  how  it  looks 
on  it." 

Instead  of  obeying  Jim  tumbled  down  on  the  couch  and 
put  his  hands  under  the  back  of  his  head  and  smiled. 

"  Dell,"  said  he,  "  let 's  put  our  Christmas  presents  away 
and  keep  'em  awhile.  They  're  too  nice  to  use  just  at  present. 
I  sold  the  watch  to  get  the  money  to  buy  your  combs." 

0.  Henry. 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

THE    COURTING    OF    T'NOWHEAD'S    BELL* 

FOE  two  years  it  had  been  notorious  that  Sam'l  Dickie 
was  thinking  of  courting  T'nowhead's  Bell,  and  that 
if  Little  Sanders  Elshioner  went  in  for  her,  he  might  prove 
a  formidable  rival. 

It  was  Saturday  evening  —  the  night  in  the  week  when 
Auld  Licht  young  men  fell  in  love  —  that  Sam'l  Dickie  came 
to  the  door  of  a  farmhouse.     The  farmer's  wife,  Lisbeth, 
came  to  the  door. 
"  Oh,  Sam'l." 

*  By  permission  of  Lovell,  Coryell  &  Co. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  73 

Sam'l  shook  hands  with  Lisbeth,  said  "  Ay,  Bell,"  to  his 
sweetheart,  "  Ay,  Tnowhead,"  to  the  farmer,  and  "  It 's 
3'ersel,  Sanders,"  to  his  rival. 

"  Sit  in  to  the  fire,  Sam'l,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  Na,  na,  I  'm  to  bide  nae  time."  Sam'l  felt  a  little  anxious. 
Sanders  Elshioner,  who  had  one  leg  shorter  than  the  other, 
but  looked  well  when  sitting,  seemed  suspiciously  at  home. 
Sam'l  did  not  like  it.  It  was  impossible  to  say  which  of  her 
lovers  Bell  preferred,  but  undoubtedly,  according  to  custom, 
she  would  accept  the  first  one  who  proposed. 

"  Ye  '11  bide  a  wee,  an'  hae  something  to  eat  ?  "  Lisbeth 
asked  Sam'l. 

"  No,  I  thank  ye." 

"  Ye  '11  better.'' 

"  I  dinna  think  it." 

"  Hoots  a3'e ;   what 's  to  hender  ye  ?  " 

"  Weel,  since  ye  're  sae  pressin',  I  '11  bide." 

TvTo  one  asked  Sanders  to  stay.  Bell  could  not,  for  she  was 
but  the  servant,  and  T'nowhead  knew  that  the  kick  his  wife 
had  given  him  meant  that  he  was  not  to  do  so  either.  San- 
ders whistled  to  show  that  he  was  not  uncomfortable. 

"  Ay,  then,  I  '11  be  stappin'  ower  the  brae." 

He  did  not  go,  however. 

At  last  Lisbeth  saw  that  something  must  be  done.  The 
potatoes  were  burning,  and  T'nowhead  had  an  invitation  on 
his  tongue. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  hae  to  be  movin',"  said  Sanders,  hopelessly, 
for  the  fifth  time. 

"  Guid-nicht  to  ye,  then,  Sanders,"  said  Lisbeth,  "  Gie 
the  door  a  fling-to,  ahent  ye." 

Sanders,  with  a  mighty  effort,  pulled  himself  together. 
He  looked  boldly  at  Bell,  and  then  took  off  his  hat  carefully. 
Sam'l  saw  with  misgivings  that  there  was  something  in  it 
which  was  not  a  handkerchief.  It  was  a  paper  bag  glitter- 
ing with  gold  braid,  and  contained  such  an  assortment  of 
sweets  as  lads  bought  for  their  lasses. 

"  Hae,  Bell,"  said  Sanders,  handing  the  bag  to  Bell  in  an 
offhand  way  as  if  it  were  but  a  trifle.  Nevertheless  he  was 
a  little  excited,  for  he  went  off  without  saying  good-niglit. 

"  Sit  in  by  to  the  table,  Sam'l,"  said  Lisbeth,  trying  to  look 
as  if  things  were  as  they  had  been  before. 

Sam'l  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

"  What  do  ye  think  ?  "  asked  Lisbeth. 


74  SELECTED   READINGS 

« I  d'na  kin,"  faltered  Bell. 

In  ten  minutes  Sam'l  was  back.  "  Bell,  hae ! "  he  cried, 
handing  his  sweetheart  a  tinsel  bag  twice  the  size  of  San- 
ders's gift. 

"  I  thank  ye,  Sam'l,"  said  Bell,  feeling  an  unwonted  ela- 
tion as  she  gazed  at  the  two  paper  bags  in  her  lap. 

"  I  wadna  advise  )-e  to  eat  thae  ither  anes,  Bell  —  they  're 
second  qualit}',"  said  Sam'l. 

"  How  do  ye  kin  ?  " 

"  I  speired  i'  the  shop." 

The  courting  of  T'nowhead's  Bell  reached  its  crisis  one 
Sabbath  about  a  montli  after  the  events  just  related.  It  was 
a  fateful  Sabbath  for  T'nowhead's  Bell,  who  had  remained 
home  from  church. 

The  first  half  of  the  service  had  been  gone  through  with- 
out anything  remarkable  happening.  It  was  at  the  end  of 
the  psalm  which  preceded  the  sermon  that  Sanders  Elshioner, 
who  sat  near  the  door,  lowered  his  head  until  it  was  no  higher 
than  the  pews,  and  slipped  out  of  the  church.  In  their 
eagerness  to  hear  the  sermon,  many  of  the  congregation  did 
not  notice  him,  but  Sam'l,  from  his  seat  in  the  gallery,  saw 
Sanders  disappear,  and  with  the  true  lover's  instinct,  ^^n- 
derstood  it  all.  Bell  was  alone  at  the  farm.  Sanders,  doubt- 
less, was  off  to  propose,  and  he,  Sam'l,  was  left  behind. 

The  suspense  was  terrible.  Sam'l  and  Sanders  had  both 
known  all  along  that  Bell  would  take  the  first  of  the  two 
who  asked  her.  In  ten  minutes  Sanders  would  be  at  T'now- 
head's ;  in  an  hour  all  would  be  over.  Sam'l  rose  to  his  feet 
in  a  daze.  His  mother  pulled  him  down  by  the  coat-tail,  and 
his  father  shook  him,  thinldng  he  was  walking  in  his  sleep. 
He  tottered  past  them,  however,  hurried  up  the  aisle  and  was 
gone. 

A  nimiber  of  the  congregation  realized  that  day  the  ad- 
vantage of  sitting  in  the  loft.  WTiat  was  a  mysterj^  to  those 
downstairs  was  revealed  to  them.  From  the  gallery  windows 
they  had  a  fine  open  view  to  the  south ;  and  as  Sam'l  took 
a  short  cut  through  a  steep  ascent,  to  T'nowhead's,  he  was 
never  out  of  their  line  of  vision.  Sanders  was  not  to  be 
seen,  but  they  guessed  rightly  the  reason  why.  Thinking 
he  had  ample  time,  he  had  gone  round  by  the  main  road. 
Sam'l's  design  was  to  forestall  him  by  taking  the  shorter 
path. 

It  was  a  race  for  a  wife,  and  several  onlookers  in  the  gallery 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  75 

braved  the  minister's  displeasure  to  see  who  won.  Those 
who  favored  Sani'l's  suit  exultingly  saw  him  leap  the  stream, 
while  the  friends  of  Sanders  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  top  of 
the  common  where  it  ran  into  the  road.  The  chances  were 
in  Sanders's  favor.  Had  it  been  any  other  day  in  the  week 
Sam'l  might  have  run.  So  some  of  tlie  congregation  in  the 
gallery  were  thinking,  when  suddenly  they  saw  him  take 
to  his  heels.  The  rivals  had  seen  each  other.  It  was  now  a 
hot  race.  More  than  one  person  in  the  gallery  almost  rose 
to  their  feet  in  their  excitement.  Sam'l  had  it.  No,  San- 
ders was  in  front.  Then  the  two  figures  disappeared  from 
view. 

"  Lord  preserve 's !  Are  ye  no  at  the  kirk  ?  "  cried  Bell, 
nearly  dropping  the  baby  as  Sam'l  broke  into  the  room, 

"  Bell !  "  cried  Sam'l,  "  will  ye  hae  's,  Bell  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  answered  Bell. 

"  Bring 's  a  drink  o'  water,  Bell."  But  Bell  thought  the 
occasion  required  milk,  and  there  was  none  in  the  kitchen. 
She  went  out  to  the  byre,  and  saw  Sanders  Elshioner  sitting 
gJoomilv  on  the  pigsty. 

"  Weel,  Bell,"  said  Sanders. 

"  I  thocht  ve  'd  been  at  the  kirk,  Sanders,"  said  Bell. 

"Has  Sam'l  speired  ye.  Bell?" 

"  Ay." 

Sanders  gave  the  pig  a  vicious  poke  as  Bell  went  back 
to  the  kitchen.  Sanders  remained  at  the  pigsty  until 
Sam'l  left  the  farm,  when  lie  joined  him  at  the  top  of  the 
brae. 

"  It 's  yersel,  Sanders,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  It  is  so,  Sam'l." 

"  Very  cauld." 

"  Blawy." 

After  a  pause  — 

"  Sam'l." 

"  Ay." 

"  I  'm  hearin'  ye  're  to  be  mairit." 

"  Ay." 

"Weel,  Sam'l,  she's  a  snod  l)it  lassie." 

"  Thank  ye." 

"  I  had  ance  a  kin'  o'  notion  o'  Bell  mysel." 

"Tchad?" 

"  Yes,  Sam'l ;    but  I  thocht  better  o'  t." 

"  Hoo  d'ye  mean?" 


76  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  Weel,  Sam'l,  mairitch  is  a  temble  responsibeelity.  An' 
no  the  thing  to  tak  up  withoot  conseederation." 

"  But  it 's  a  blessed  and  honorable  state,  Sanders ;  ye  've 
heard  the  minister  on  't." 

"  They  say  'at  the  minister  doesna  get  on  sair  wi'  the  wife 
himsel." 

"  So  thev  do." 

"  I  've  been  telt,"  Sanders  went  on,  "  'at  gin  ye  can  get  the 
upper  han'  o'  the  wife  for  a  while  at  first,  there 's  the  mair 
chance  o'  a  harmonious  exeestence." 

"  Bell 's  no  the  lassie  to  thwart  her  man.  D'  ye  think  she 
is,  Sanders  ?  " 

"  Weel,  Sam'l,  I  'd'  na  want  to  fluster  ye,  but  she 's  been 
ower  lang  wi'  Lisbeth  Fargus  no  to  hae  learnt  her  ways.  An 
a'body  kins  what  a  life  T'nowhead  has  wi'  her." 

"  Guid-sake,  Sanders,  hoo  did  ye  no  speak  o'  this  afore  ?  " 

"  I  thocht  ye  kent  o'  t,  Sam'l." 
But,  Sanders,  ye  was  on  yer  wy  to  speir  her  yersel." 
I  was,  Sam'l,  and  I  canna  but  be  thankfu'  ye  was  ower 
quick  for  's." 

"  Gin 't  hadna  been  you,  I  wid  never  hae  thocht  o'  t." 

"  I  'm  sayin'  naething  agin  Bell ;  but  man,  Sam'l,  a  body 
should  be  mair  deleeberate  in  a  thing  o'  the  kind." 

"  It  was  michty  hurried." 

"  It 's  a  serious  thing  to  speir  a  lassie." 

"  It 's  an  awfu'  tiling." 

"  But  we  '11  hope  for  the  best." 

"  Sam'l ! " 

"  Ay,  Sanders." 

"  Did  ye  —  did  ye  kiss  her,  Sam'l  ?  " 

"  Na." 

"Hoo?" 

"  There  was  varra  little  time,  Sanders." 

"  Plalf  an  'oor." 

"  Was  there  ?  Man,  Sanders,  to  tell  ye  the  truth,  I  never 
thocht  o'  t." 

ileeting  Sanders  some  weeks  later  Sam'l  said  to  him,  "  If 
I  had  only  kent  her  langer !  " 

"  It  wid  hae  been  safer." 

"  Ye  hae  kent  her  langer  than  me,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  Yes,  but  there  's  nae  gettin'  at  the  heart  o'  women.  Man, 
Sam'l,  they  're  desperate  cunnin'." 

"  I  'm  dootin'  t;   I  'm  sair  dootin'  t." 


PROSE    SELECTIONS  77 

"  It  '11  be  a  warnin'  to  ye,  Sam'l,  no  to  be  in  sic  a  hurrv  i' 
the  futur." 

"  But,  Sanders,  ye  canna  deny  but  what  your  rinnin  oot  o' 
the  kirk  that  awfu'  day  was  at  the  bottom  o  'd  a'." 

"  It  was  so." 

"  An'  ye  used  to  be  fond  o'  Bell,  Sanders." 

"  I  dinna  deny  't." 

"  Sanders,  laddie,  I  aye  thocht  it  was  you  she  likit." 

"  I  had  some  sic  idea  mysel." 

"  Sanders,  I  canna  think  to  pairt  twa  fowk  sae  weel  suited 
to  ane  anither  as  you  an'  Bell." 

"  Canna  ye,  Sam'l  ?  " 

"  She  wid  mak  ye  a  guid  wife,  Sanders.  I  hae  studied  her 
weel,  and  she 's  a  thrifty,  douce,  clever  lassie.  Sauders, 
there's  no  the  like  o'  her.  Mony  a  time,  Sanders,  I  hae  said 
to  mysel,  '  There  's  a  lass  ony  man  micht  be  prood  to  tak.' 
A'body  says  the  same,  Sanders.  There 's  nae  risk  ava,  man : 
nane  to  speak  o'.  Tak  her,  laddie,  tak  her,  Sanders  ;  it 's  a 
grand  chance,  Sanders.  She 's  yours  for  the  speirin'.  I  '11 
gie  her  up,  Sanders." 

"Will  ye,  though?" 

"\\Tiat  d'ye  think?" 

"  If  ye  wid  rayther." 

"  There 's  my  han'  on 't.  Bless  ye,  Sanders ;  ye  've  been 
a  true  frien'  to  me." 

So,  as  soon  as  it  could  be  done,  Sanders  Elshioner  took  to 
wife  T'nowhead's  Bell,  and  Sam'l  Dickie  danced  at  the 
wedding. 

J.  M.  Baeeie. 

Adapted  hy  Anna  Morgan. 

THE    GATE    OF    THE    HUNDRED    SORROWS* 

THIS  is  no  work  of  mine.  My  friend,  Gabral  Misquitta, 
the  half-caste,  spoke  it  all,  between  moonset  and  morn- 
ing, six  weeks  before  he  died;  and  I  took  it  down  from  his 
mouth  as  he  answered  my  questions.     So : 

It  lies  between  the  Coppersmith's  Gully  and  the  pipe-stem 
sellers'  quarter,  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  ]\Iosque  of 
Wazir  Khan.  I  don't  mind  telling  any  one  this  much,  but  I 
defy  him  to  find  the  gate,  however  well  he  may  think  ho  knows 
the  city.    You  might  even  go  through  tlie  very  gully  it  stands 

*  By  permission  of  H.  M.  Caldwell  Co. 


78  SELECTED   READINGS 

in  a  hundred  times  and  be  none  the  wiser.  We  used  to  call 
the  gully  the  Gully  of  the  Black  Smoke.  A  loaded  donkey 
could  n't  pass  between  the  walls,  and  at  one  point  just  before 
you  reach  the  gate  a  bulged  house  front  makes  people  go 
along  all  sideways.  It  is  n't  really  a  gate  though,  it 's  a 
house.  Old  Fung-Tching  had  it  first  five  years  ago. 
He  was  a  bootmaker  in  Calcutta.  They  say  that  he  mur- 
dered his  wife  there  when  he  was  drunk.  That  was  why  he 
dropped  Bazaar  Bum  and  took  to  the  Black  Smoke  instead. 
Later  on  he  came  up  north  and  opened  a  gate  as  a  house 
where  you  could  get  your  smoke  in  peace  and  quiet.  Mind 
you,  it  was  a  respectable  opium  house  and  not  one  of  those 
stifling,  sweltering  chandoo-khanas  that  you  find  all  over  the 
city.  No,  the  old  man  knew  his  business  thoroughly,  and  he 
was  most  clean  for  a  Chinaman. 

Fung-Tching  never  told  us  why  he  called  the  place  The 
Gate  of  the  Hundred  Sorrows.  We  used  to  find  that  out  for 
ourselves.  Nothing  grows  on  you  so  much  if  you  are  white  as 
the  black  smoke.  A  3'ellow  man  is  made  different.  Opium 
does  n't  tell  on  him  scarcely  at  all,  but  white  and  black 
sufiier  a  good  deal.  Of  course  there  are  some  people  that  the 
smoke  does  n't  touch  any  more  than  tobacco  would  at  first. 
They  just  doze  a  bit,  as  one  would  fall  asleep  naturally,  and 
next  morning  they  are  almost  fit  for  work.  Now,  I  was  one 
of  that  sort  when  I  began,  but  I  've  been  at  it  for  five  years 
pretty  steadily,  and  it 's  different  now.  There  was  an  old 
aunt  of  mine  down  Agra  way,  and  she  left  me  a  little  at  her 
death,  about  sixty  rupees  a  month  secured.  Sixty  is  n't 
much.  I  can  recollect  the  time,  it  seems  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago,  that  I  was  getting  my  three  hundred  a 
month  and  pickings,  when  I  was  working  on  a  big  timber 
contract  in  Calcutta. 

There  was  ten  of  us  met  at  the  Gate  when  the  place  was 
first  opened.  Now  there  is  only  me,  the  Cliinaman,  and  the 
half-caste  woman  that  we  call  the  Memsahib.  The  Memsahib 
looks  very  old  now.  I  think  she  was  a  young  woman  when 
the  Gate  was  opened,  but  we  are  all  old  for  the  matter  of 
that,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  old.  It  is  very  hard  to 
keep  count  of  time  in  the  Gate,  and  besides,  time  doesn't 
matter  to  me.  Now  I  am  quite  happy,  not  drunk  happy,  you 
know,  but  always  quiet  and  soothed  and  contented. 

How  did  I  take  to  it  ?  It  began  at  Calcutta.  I  used  to  try- 
it  in  my  own  house,  just  to  see  what  it  was  like.    Finally,  I 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  79 

found  myself  here  and  got  to  know  Fung-Tcliing.  He  told 
me  of  the  Gate,  and  I  used  to  go  there,  and  somehow  I  have 
never  got  away  from  it  since.  Mind  you,  though,  the  Gate 
was  a  respectable  place  in  Fung-Tching-'s  time.  We  always 
had  a  mat  apiece  with  a  wadded  woollen  head-piece  all  cov- 
ered with  black  and  red  dragons  and  things,  just  like  the 
coffin  in  the  comer.  At  the  end  of  one's  third  pipe  the 
dragons  used  to  move  about  and  fight.  I  've  watched  them 
many  and  many  a  night  through.  I  used  to  regulate  my 
smoke  that  way;  and  now  it  takes  a  dozen  pipes  to  make 
them  stir.  Besides  they  're  all  torn  and  dirty  like  the  mats, 
and  old  Fung-Tching  is  dead.  He  died  a  couple  of  years  ago 
and  gave  me  the  pipe  I  always  use  now,  a  silver  one,  and  I  've 
got  to  clean  it  out  now,  and  that 's  a  great  deal  of  trouble ; 
but  I  smoke  it  for  the  old  man's  sake.  He  must  have  made  a 
good  thing  out  of  me,  but  he  always  gave  me  clean  mats  and 
a  pillow  and  the  best  stuff  you  could  get  anywhere. 

When  he  died  his  nephew  Tsin-Ling  took  up  the  Gate, 
and  he  called  it  The  Temple  of  the  Three  Possessions;  but 
we  old  ones  speak  of  it  as  The  Hundred  Sorrows,  all  the  same. 
The  nephew  does  things  very  shabbily.  I  found  burned  bran 
in  my  pipe  over  and  over  again.  The  old  man  would  have 
died  if  that  had  happened  in  his  time. 

I  don't  know  why  I  don't  leave  the  place  and  smoke  quietly 
in  a  little  room  of  my  own  in  the  Bazaar.  Most  like  Tsin- 
Ling  would  kill  me  if  I  went  away.  He  draws  my  sixty 
rupees  now,  and  besides,  it 's  so  much  trouble,  and  I  've  grown 
to  be  very  fond  of  the  Gate.  It 's  not  what  it  was  in  the  old 
man's  time,  but  I  could  n't  leave  it. 

One  of  these  days  I  hope  I  shall  die  in  the  Gate.  The 
Persian  and  the  Madras  man  are  terribly  shaky  now. 
They've  got  a  boy  to  light  their  pipes  for  them.  I  always 
do  that  myself.  Most  like  T  shall  see  them  carried  out  before 
me.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  outlive  the  Memsahib  or 
Tsin-Ling.  Women  last  longer  than  men  at  the  black  smoke, 
and  Tsin-Ling  has  a  deal  of  the  old  man's  blood  in  him.  The 
Bazaar  woman  knew  when  she  was  going,  two  days  before 
her  time,  and  she  died  on  a  clean  mat  with  a  nicely  wadded 
pillow;  and  the  old  man  hung  up  her  pipe  just  above  the 
joss.  He  was  always  fond  of  her,  I  fancy,  but  he  took  her 
bangles  just  the  same. 

I  should  like  to  die  like  the  Bazaar  woman  on  a  clean,  cool 
mat  with  a  pipe  of  good  stuff  between  my  lips.    WTien  I  feel 


80  SELECTED   READINGS 

I  'm  going  I  shall  ask  Tsin-Ling  for  them,  and  he  can  draw 
ray  sixty  rupees  a  month  fresh  and  fresh  as  long  as  he  pleases. 
Then  I  shall  lie  back  quiet  and  comfortable  and  watch  the 
black  and  red  dragons  have  their  last  big  fight  together,  and 
then.  .  .  . 

Well,  it  does  n't  matter ;  nothing  matters  much  to  me  — 
only  I  wish  Tsin-Ling  would  n't  put  bran  into  the  black 
smoke. 

EuDYARD  Kipling. 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

HOW  MUCH  LAND  DOES  A  MAN  REQUIRE? 

AN  elder  sister  from  town  visited  a  younger  sister  in  the 
,  country.  The  elder  was  married  to  a  merchant,  the 
younger  to  a  simple  peasant.  The  elder  fell  to  boasting  of 
her  town  life;  how  she  lived  and  moved  about  in  ease  and 
comfort ;  how  nicely  she  dressed  her  children ;  what  delicious 
things  she  had  to  eat  and  drink,  and  how  pleasant  it  was  to 
be  always  driving  about  or  going  to  the  theatre.  The  younger 
sister  was  vexed.  She  began  to  run  down  town  life  and  exalt 
country  life.  "  I  would  not  change  my  condition  for  yours," 
said  she.  "  I  grant  you  that  our  life  is  dull,  but  it  is  without 
care.  You  live  more  finely,  no  doubt;  but  if  trade  brings 
you  in  much,  it  may  also  ruin  you  in  an  instant.  The  prov- 
erb says,  '  Gain  has  a  big  brother  called  Loss.'  To-day  you 
are  pretty  rich,  to-morrow  you  may  be  begging  your  bread 
beneath  my  windows.  Our  rustic  life  is  surer:  we  are  not 
rich,  perhaps,  but  we  always  have  enough." 

"  Enough,  indeed,"  retorted  the  elder ;  "  yes,  and  you  share 
it  with  oxen  and  swine.  You  've  neither  elegance  nor  com- 
fort. Let  your  husband  work  as  he  may,  you  '11  live  and  die 
muckworms,  and  your  children  after  you." 

"  Yes,  so  't  is,"  returned  the  younger ;  "  and  we  know  what 
we  have  to  expect.  But  set  against  it  that  our  life  is  as  solid 
as  the  rock  beneath  our  feet.  We  truckle  to  none.  We  fear 
nobody.  But  all  you  to^^Tisfolk  are  beset  with  stumbling- 
blocks.  To-day  't  is  well,  but  to-morrow  the  unclean  spirit 
pokes  his  head  in  and  tempts  your  husband  with  cards,  or 
wine,  or  theft,  and  —  your  wealth  is  all  dust  and  ashes.  You 
can't  deny  it." 

Pakhom,  the  younger  sister's  husband,  was  listening  to 
the  women's  prattle.     "  Quite   true,"  said  he  to  himself. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  81 

*'  perfectly  true.  xA.s  our  brother  (i.  e.,  himself)  has  been  turn- 
ing over  his  mother  earth  from  childhood,  nonsense  has  had 
no" time  to  get  into  his  head.  The  mischief  of  it  is  there  's  so 
little  land  to  be  had.  Let  me  only  have  land  enough  and 
I  '11  fear  nobody ;  no,  not  even  the  Devil  himself." 

And  the  Devil,  who  had  all  the  time  been  sitting  behind 
the  stove,  heard  everything.  He  hugged  himself  with  joy 
that  the  peasant's  wife  should  have  set  her  husband  off  brag- 
ging —  bragging  that  if  he  only  had  land  enough,  the  Devil 
himself  should  not  hurt  him.  "  Softly,  softly,"  thought  he. 
"  We  '11  be  even  with  you  yet.  I  '11  give  you  land  enough, 
and  both  you  and  your  land  shall  be  mine." 

One  day  Pakhom  was  sitting  at  home,  when  a  strange 
peasant,  who  was  passing  by,  looked  in. 

"  Pray  say,  friend,  whither  is  God  leading  you?  " 

The  peasant  replied  that  he  came  from  the  south,  from  the 
lower  Volga,  and  that  plenty  of  work  was  to  be  had  there. 
One  peasant  went  there  quite  poor,  with  nothing  but  his  two 
hands,  in  fact,  and  got  an  allotment  of  fifty  acres.  Last  year 
he  made  a  thousand  roubles  (a  hundred  pounds)  from  a 
single  wheat  crop. 

Pakhom's  heart  burned  within  him.  Why  should  he  grow 
poorer  the  harder  he  worked,  when  he  might  live  so  well 
elsewhere  ? 

"  I  '11  sell  my  farm  and  land,  and  settle  down  there  with  the 
money,  and  farm  on  a  big  scale." 

So  when  the  summer  time  came  he  arose  and  went.  He 
sailed  down  the  Volga  by  the  steamer  as  far  as  Samara. 
Everything  was  exactly  as  he  had  been  told.  The  peasants 
lived  sumptuously  there.  He  investigated  everything,  re- 
turned home  in  the  Autumn,  and  sold  all  he  had. 

They  received  Pakhom  into  the  community,  allotted  him 
land  for  five  souls,  with  right  of  pasturage  on  the  communal 
lands.  Pakhom  built  him  a  house  and  bought  much  cattle. 
His  own  lot  of  land  was  double  as  much  as  before,  and  fat 
land  it  was.  Thus  he  lived  for  five  years.  He  hired  more 
land  and  sowed  more  and  more  wheat.  The  years  rolled  by 
prosperously;  the  wheat  crops  were  good;  he  began  to  amass 
money.  Life  would  indeed  have  been  worth  living  but  from 
the  annoyance  which  Pakhom  felt  in  hiring  land  from  people 
every  year  and  losing  time  by  going  in  search  of  it.  One  day 
a  merchant  on  his  way  home  stopped  at  Pakhom's  farm  to 

6 


82  SELECTED   READINGS 

fodder  his  horses.  The  merchant  said  that  he  had  come  all 
the  way  from  the  land  of  the  Bashkirs.  There,  he  said,  he 
had  bought  five  thousand  acres  of  land  from  the  Bashkirs, 
and  the  whole  lot  only  came  to  one  thousand  roubles.  Pak- 
hom  began  asking  questions.  The  merchant  told  him  all 
about  it. 

"  You  have  only  to  cajole  their  chiefs,"  said  he,  "  give  them 
a  hundred  roubles'  worth  of  dressing-gowns  and  carpets,  and 
a  chest  of  tea,  and  drink  a  little  wine  with  those  who  like  it, 
and  get  land  at  twenty  kopecks  (twelve  cents)  an  acre." 

"  The  land  there,"  continued  the  merchant,  "  is  so  vast  that 
if  you  took  a  whole  year  to  go  over  it  you  would  not  do  it, 
and  it  all  belongs  to  the  Bashkirs.  They  are  a  simple  people, 
just  like  sheep.  Possibly  you  may  even  get  some  of  the  land 
for  nothing." 

"  Well,"  thought  Pakhom,  "  why  should  I  buy  fifty  acres 
of  land  with  my  thousand  roubles,  and  saddle  myself  with 
debt  besides,  when  there  with  the  same  monev  I  could  do  what 
Hiked?" 

As  soon  as  the  merchant  had  gone,  Pakhom  got  ready  for 
his  journey. 

He  left  his  wife  at  home  but  took  a  laborer  with  him,  and 
set  out.  First  they  went  to  town ;  bought  some  chests  of  tea, 
gifts,  wine,  everything  that  the  merchant  had  said.  On  the 
seventh  day  they  came  to  the  land  of  the  nomadic  Bashkirs: 
Everything  there  was  exactly  as  the  merchant  had  said.  The 
instant  they  saw  Pakhom  they  came  out  of  their  Icihitli  and 
surrounded  the  stranger.  An  interpreter  chanced  to  be  there. 
Pakhom  told  him  he  had  come  for  land. 

"  They  bid  me  tell  you,"  said  the  interpreter,  "  that  they  've 
taken  a  fancy  to  you,  and  't  is  their  custom  to  grant  the  de- 
sires of  their  guests,  and  give  back  gifts  for  gifts.  You  have 
given  us  gifts,  speak  now  !  what  thing  of  ours  does  your  heart 
desire,  that  we  may  give  it  to  you  ?  " 

"What  I  like  best  of  all,"  said  Pakhom,  "is  your  land. 
I  have  never  seen  the  like  of  it  before." 

The  interpreter  interpreted.  The  Bashkirs  talked  away 
among  themselves.  Pakhom  did  not  understand  what  they 
were  saying,  but  he  could  see  that  they  were  vastly  amused  at 
something,  for  they  laughed  heartily. 

"  They  bid  me  tell  you,"  said  the  interpreter,  "  that  for 
your  goodness  to  them  they  will  be  glad  to  give  you  as  much 
land  as  you  desire." 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  83 

"  And  the  price  ?  "  said  Pakhom. 

"  We  have  only  one  price  here,  one  thousand  roubles  a  day. 
"We  sell  by  the  da}^  —  that  is  to  say,  so  much  land  as  you 
are  able  to  compass  in  a  day,  so  much  is  your  measure; 
the  price  per  day  is  one  thousand  roubles.  But  there 's 
one  condition.  If  you  don't  come  back  within  the  day  to  the 
point  whence  you  started,  you  forfeit  your  money  and  get 
nothing." 

"  But  how,"  asked  Pakhom  again ;  "do  you  mean  to  say 
you  '11  measure  me  all  I  go  over  ?  " 

"  You  are  free  to  make  your  own  circuit,  but  you  must 
come  back  to  the  place  from  whence  you  started  before  the 
setting  of  the  sun.  Whatsoever  you  compass  within  that  time 
the  same  shall  be  yours." 

Pakhom  consented  and  they  agreed  to  set  out  early  the  next 
morning.  Then  they  made  a  bed  for  Pakhom  of  soft  cush- 
ions, and  the  Bashkirs  left  him. 

Pakhom  lay  on  his  cushions  but  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
kept  thinking  of  the  land.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  I  am  indeed 
in  luck's  way.  I  am  about  to  drop  into  a  huge  domain,  for  in 
a  day  I  can  make  a  circuit  of  fifty  miles  easily.  Now,  in  fifty 
miles  there  are  at  least  ten  thousand  acres.  I  shall  be  inde- 
pendent of  all  the  world." 

Pakhom  did  not  sleep  a  wink  the  whole  night.  It  was  only 
just  before  dawn  that  he  dozed  off.  When  he  woke  his  first 
thought  was,  "  I  must  wake  up  the  people,  the  time  has 
come." 

When  Pakhom  with  his  laborer  reached  the  steppe  the  red 
dawn  was  already  visible.  They  came  to  a  little  mound,  dis- 
mounted, and  the  Bashkirs  went  up  to  the  top  of  it  and  stood 
there  in  a  group.  The  chief  came  to  Pakhom,  and  pointed 
with  his  hand. 

"  Behold,"  said  he,  "  as  far  as  3^our  eye  can  reach,  all  is 
ours.  Choose  what  you  will !  "  The  chief  doffed  his  fox-skin 
hat,  and  set  it  on  top  of  the  mound. 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  will  be  the  goal,  put  5'our  money  in  it. 
Your  laborer  Avill  stand  here.  This  is  your  starting  point  — 
hither  also  will  you  return.  Wliatsoever  you  compass  shall  bo 
yours." 

Pakhom  took  out  his  money,  placed  it  in  the  cap,  doffed  his 
long  cloak,  girded  up  his  loins,  tightened  his  belt,  thnist  a  bit 
of  bread  into  his  bosom,  fastened  a  gourd  full  of  water  to  his 
waist,  drew  up  the  straps  of  his  boots,  and  prepared  to  depart. 


84  SELECTED   READINGS 

He  racked  his  brains  as  to  what  direction  he  should  take  first 
—  everywhere  the  land  was  good. 

"  'T  is  all  one,"  thought  he,  "  I  '11  go  toward  the  setting  of 
the  sun." 

Pakhom  set  out  at  a  leisurely,  even  pace.  He  went  a  mile 
and  then  bade  them  plant  a  pole.  He  went  on  farther.  His 
limbs  began  to  lose  their  first  stiffness.  He  quickened  his 
pace.  Paldiom  glanced  back  at  the  sun.  The  top  of  the 
mound  was  well  in  sight,  with  the  group  standing  on  it. 
Pakhom  calculated  that  he  had  gone  five  miles.  And  now  he 
began  to  sweat.  He  cast  off  his  doublet  and  girded  himself 
still  tighter.  He  went  on  farther  and  covered  another  five 
miles.  It  began  to  be  hot.  Again  he  looked  back  at  the  sun. 
It  was  already  breakfast-time. 

"  I  have  now  done  one  wagon-stage,"  thought  he,  "  four 
wagon-stages  make  a  good  day's  journey.  It  is  still  too  early 
to  turn  back,  but  I  may  at  least  loosen  my  boots."  He  sat 
down,  made  his  boots  easier  and  went  on  farther.  It  was  now 
mucli  easier  going.  He  thought,  "  I  '11  go  another  five  miles, 
and  then  I  '11  turn  to  the  left.    This  spot  is  good." 

But  tlie  farther  he  went  the  better  the  land  got.  He  con- 
tinued to  go  straight  on.  He  looked  round  at  last.  The 
mound  was  scarcely  visible,  and  the  people  upon  it  looked  lilie 
black  ants. 

"  Well,"  thought  Pakhom,  "  I  have  taken  enough  in  this 
direction.  I  must  turn  off  now."  He  had  grown  very  hot  and 
felt  a  strong  desire  to  drink.  So  he  raised  his  gourd  to  his 
mouth  and  drank  without  stopping;  and  turned  off  sharply 
to  the  left.  He  went  on  and  on.  The  heat  became  oppressive. 
Pakhom  stood  still.  He  looked  at  the  sun.  It  was  dinner- 
time. "  Well,"  thought  Pakhom,  "  I  must  rest,  I  suppose." 
So  he  stopped  and  ate  some  bread  but  would  not  sit  down. 
''  For,"  thought  he,  "  if  you  begin  to  sit  down  you  will  want 
to  lie  down,  and  if  you  lie  down  you  will  go  to  sleep."  So  he 
stood  still  for  a  little  while  to  get  his  breath,  and  then  on  he 
went  again.  At  first  it  was  easy  going.  His  food  had  forti- 
fied him.  But  soon  it  grew  very  hot  again,  and  the  sun  beat 
full  upon  him.  Pakhom  began  to  grow  mortally  weary. 
"  Come,  come !  "  thought  he,  "  endure  for  an  hour  and  live 
like  a  king  ever  afterwards  !  " 

So  he  went  on  and  traversed  in  this  direction  likewise. 
He  was  about  to  turn  to  the  left  again,  when  his  eye  fell  upon 
a  very  good  little  spot,  a  fresh,  well  watered  ravine.    He  had 


prOjE  selections  85 

not  the  heart  to  leave  it  out,  so  he  went  straight  on  again, 
encompassed  the  ravine  and  turned  the  second  corner.  Pak- 
hom  looked  toward  the  mound.  The  people  on  it  were  just 
visible.  It  was  exactly  fifteen  miles  off.  ''  Well,"  thought 
he,  "  I  have  made  the  first  two  sides  of  my  domain  very  long, 
this  one  must  be  much  shorter."  He  now  traversed  the  third 
side,  taking  longer  strides  than  before.  He  looked  again  at 
the  sun.  It  had  already  begun  to  decline.  On  the  third  side 
he  had  only  gone  two  miles  in  all,  and  still  he  was  quite  fif- 
teen miles  from  the  goal.  "  Well,"  thought  he,  "  although 
my  property  will  be  somewhat  lopsided,  I  must  nevertheless 
keep  straight  on  now.  Any  more  would  be  more  than  I  could 
manage.  '"  I  have  got  enough  land  at  last."  So  Pakhom 
turned  his  steps  straight  toward  the  mound  and  ver}'  heavy 
going  he  found  it.  On  he  went,  stumbling  again  and  again. 
His  legs  ached  and  swelled,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  giving 
way  beneath  him  altogether.  He  would  have  liked  to  rest, 
but  that  was  now  out  of  the  question.  He  would  never  have 
reached  the  goal  before  sunset.  The  sun  did  not  wait  for 
him.  It  was  not  sinking,  it  was  falling  —  falling  as  if  some 
one  was  jerking  it  down.  "  Alas ! "  thought  Pakhom. 
*•  Have  I  made  a  mistake?  Have  I  chosen  too  much?  Sup- 
pose I  don't  arrive  in  time  ?  Alas !  how  far  off  it  is !  I  am 
wearied  to  death !  What  if  all  my  labor  and  trouble  go  for 
nothing ! " 

Pakhom  pulled  himself  together  and  broke  into  a  trot. 
His  legs  began  to  bleed  but  he  ran  for  all  that.  He  threw 
away  his  vest,  his  shoes,  his  water-gourd ;  he  threw  away  his 
hat.  "  Alas,"  tliought  Pakhom,  "  I  have  coveted  too  much, 
and  I  shall  lose  everything  if  I  do  not  reach  the  goal  in  time," 
and  a  terrible  fear  seized  upon  his  soul.  Pakhom  ran  and 
ran.  His  shirt  and  his  trousers,  drenched  with  sweat,  clave 
to  his  body;  his  mouth  was  parched  and  dry,  his  breast 
seemed  to  be  a  blacksmith's  bellows;  his  heart  beat  like  a 
hammer;  his  feet  bent  beneath  him  and  no  longer  seemed 
his  own. 

Pakhom  thought  no  more  of  his  land,  what  he  thought  was 
this :  "  Suppose  I  were  to  die  of  fatigue  !  "  He  feared  to  die, 
but  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  stop.  "  After  running 
such  a  distance,  to  stop  now !  "  he  thought.  "  No ;  they 
would  call  me  a  fool !  \\niat  was  that?  "  He  listened.  The 
Bashkirs  wore  shouting  and  bellowing  to  him  to  come  on, 
and  their  shouts  kindled  his  courage  once  more.     Pakhom 


86  SELECTED   READINGS 

ran  with  all  tlie  strength  he  still  had  left  in  liim,  —  and  just 
then  the  sun  dipped  on  the  horizon.  But  he  was  now  quite 
close  to  the  goal.  Pakhom  saw  the  people  on  the  mound 
waving  their  hands  to  him  and  it  goaded  him  on.  And  now 
he  saw  the  fox-skin  cap  on  the  ground,  and  the  money  in  it, 
and  he  saw  the  chief  sitting  on  the  ground  and  holding  his 
sides.  "  The  land  is  plenteous,"  thought  he,  "  most  plenteous, 
but  will  God  let  me  live  upon  it  ?  Alas !  I  have  lost  my  very 
self,"  thought  he.  And  still  he  kept  running  on.  He  looked 
back  upon  the  sun.  It  was  large  and  red  and  quite  close  to 
the  ground;  it  was  on  the  point  of  disappearing.  Pakhom 
reached  the  foot  of  the  mound  and  the  sun  went  down.  Pak- 
hom groaned.  He  already  thought  that  he  had  lost  every- 
thing ;  but  then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that 't  was  only 
he,  lielow  there,  who  could  not  see  the  sun,  from  the  top  of 
the  mound  it  must  still  be  visible.  Pakhom  dashed  toward 
the  mound.  He  scaled  it  at  a  gallop  and  saw  the  fox-skin 
cap  —  yes !  there  it  lay !  Then  he  stumbled  and  fell,  and  as 
he  fell  he  stretched  out  his  hands  toward  the  cap. 

"  Well  done,  my  son ! "  roared  the  chief  of  the  Bashkirs, 
"  you  have  indeed  won  much  land !  " 

Pakhom's  laborer  ran  toward  him,  and  would  have  lifted 
him  up  but  he  saw  that  blood  was  flowing  from  his  mouth; 
there  he  lay  —  dead !  The  laborer  groaned,  but  the  chief  sat 
squatting  on  the  ground,  holding  Ms  sides  and  roaring  with 
laughter. 

And  now  the  Bashkir  chief  arose,  took  the  money  from  the 
ground,  and  shouted  to  the  laborer,  "  Come  !    Dig !  " 

He  dug  Pakhom  a  grave  and  there  he  buried  him.  The 
grave  was  two  Eussian  ells  in  length,  Pakhom's  exact  meas- 
urement from  head  to  foot. 

Leo  Tolstoi. 

Adapted  hy  Anna  Morgan. 

HER    FIRST    APPEARANCE 

ME.  CAEUTHEES  was  standing  by  the  mantel  over  the 
empty  fireplace,  wrapped  in  a  long,  loose  dressing- 
gown,  which  he  was  tying  around  him  as  Van  Bibber  entered. 
"  Excuse  my  costume,  will  you  ?  "  he  said.    "  I  turned  in 
rather  early  to-night,  it  was  so  hot." 

"  I  was  at  the  first  night  of  '  The  Sultana '  this  evening." 
"  Oh,  yes,  Lester's  new  piece.    Was  it  any  good  ?  " 


PROSE    SELECTIONS  87 

"  I  don't  know  —  yes,  I  think  it  was.  I  did  n't  see  it  from 
the  front.  There  were  a  lot  of  children  in  it  —  little  ones ; 
they  danced  and  sang,  and  made  a  great  hit.  One  of  them 
had  never  been  on  the  stage  before.  It  was  her  first  appear- 
ance. It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  great  pity  —  I  say  it  seems 
a  pity  that  a  child  like  that  should  be  allowed  to  go  on  in  that 
business.  A  gro^\^l  woman  can  go  into  it  with  her  eyes  open, 
or  a  girl  who  has  had  a  decent  training  can,  too.  But  it's 
different  with  a  child.  She  has  no  choice  in  the  matter ;  they 
don't  ask  her  permission,  and  she  is  n't  old  enough  to  know 
what  it  means ;  and  she  gets  used  to  it  and  fond  of  it  before 
she  grows  to  know  what  the  danger  is.  And  then  it's  too 
late.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  there  was  any  one  who  had  the 
right  to  stop  it,  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  to  let  that 
person  know  about  her  —  about  this  child  I  mean ;  the  one 
who  made  the  hit  —  before  it  was  too  late.  It  seems  to  me 
a  responsibility  I  would  n't  care  to  take  myself.  I  would  n't 
care  to  think  that  I  had  had  the  chance  to  stop  it,  and  had 
let  the  chance  go  by.  You  know  what  the  life  is  —  we  all 
know — every  man  knows." 

"  WTiat  is  all  this  about?  Did  you  come  here,  simply  to 
tell  me  this?    Why  did  you  come?" 

"  Because  of  the  child." 

"What  child?" 

"  Your  child." 

"  Mr.  Van  Bibber,  you  are  a  very  brave  young  man.  You 
have  dared  to  say  to  me  what  those  who  are  my  best  friends 
—  what  even  my  own  family  would  not  care  to  say.  You 
come  here  unasked,  and  uninvited,  to  let  me  know  what  you 
think  of  my  conduct ;  to  let  me  iinderstand  that  it  does  not 
agree  with  your  own  ideas  of  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  to  tell 
me  how  I,  who  am  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  should  be- 
have. I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  it;  but  I  have 
always  said  that  it  is  not  the  wicked  people  who  are  to  be 
feared  in  this  world,  or  who  do  the  most  harm.  It  is  the 
well-meaning  fool  who  makes  all  the  trouble.  I  think,  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  so,  that  you  have  demonstrated  my  theory 
pretty  thoroughly,  and  have  done  about  as  much  needless 
harm  for  one  evening  as  you  can  possibly  wish.  And  so,  if 
you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  ask  to  say  good-night,  and  will 
request  of  you  that  you  grow  older  and  wiser  and  much  more 
considerate  before  you  come  to  see  mc  again." 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  call  a  man  a  fool,  but  it  is  much  harder 


88  SELECTED   READINGS 

to  be  called  a  fool  and  not  to  throw  the  other  man  out  of  the 
window.  But  tlmt,  you  see,  would  not  do  any  good,  and  I 
have  something  to  say  first.  I  am  quite  well  aware  that  I 
did  an  unconventional  thing  in  coming  here  —  a  bold  thing, 
or  a  foolish  thing,  as  you  choose  —  but  the  situation  is  pretty 
bad  and  I  did  as  I  would  have  wished  to  be  done  by  if  I  had 
had  a  child  going  to  the  devil  and  did  n't  know  it.  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  learn  of  it  even  from  a  stranger.  How- 
ever, there  are  other  kindly  disposed  people  in  the  world  be- 
sides fathers.  There  is  an  aunt  perhaps,  or  an  uncle  or  two ; 
and  sometimes,  even  to-day,  there  is  the  chance  Samaritan. 
Good-night." 

"Wait  just  one  minute,  please,  Mr.  Van  Bibber.  Before 
you  go,  I  want  to  say  —  I  want  you  to  understand  my  posi- 
tion. When  I  married  I  did  so  against  the  wishes  of  my 
people  and  the  advice  of  all  my  friends.  You  know  all  about 
that.  God  help  us!  who  doesn't?  It  was  very  rich,  rare 
reading  for  you,  and  for  every  one  else  who  saw  the  daily 
papers,  and  we  gave  them  all  they  wanted  of  it.  I  took  her 
out  of  that  life  and  married  her  because  I  believed  she  was  as 
good  a  woman  as  any  of  those  who  had  never  had  to  work  for 
their  living,  and  I  was  bound  that  my  friends  and  your 
friends  should  recognize  her  and  respect  her  as  my  wife  had 
a  right  to  be  respected;  and  I  took  her  abroad  that  I  might 
give  all  you  sensitive,  fine  people  a  chance  to  get  used  to  the 
idea  of  being  polite  to  a  woman  who  had  once  been  a  bur- 
lesque actress.  It  began  over  there  in  Paris.  She  had  every 
chance  when  she  married  me  that  a  woman  ever  had  —  all 
that  a  man's  whole  thought  and  love  and  money  could  bring 
her.  And  you  know  what  she  did.  And  after  the  divorce  — 
and  she  was  free  to  go  where  she  pleased,  and  to  live  as  she 
pleased,  and  with  whom  she  pleased,  —  I  swore  to  my  God 
that  I  would  never  see  her  nor  her  child  again.  I  loved  the 
mother,  and  she  deceived  me  and  disgraced  me  and  broke  my 
heart,  and  I  only  vrish  she  had  killed  me.  Was  I  to  love  and 
worship  and  care  for  this  child  and  have  her  grow  up  with 
all  her  mother's  vanity,  and  have  her  turn  on  me  some  day 
and  show  me  that  what  is  bred  in  the  bone  must  tell,  and  that 
I  was  a  fool  again  —  a  pitiful  fond  fool  ?  I  could  not  trust 
her;  I  can  never  trust  any  woman  or  cliild  again,  and  least 
of  all  that  woman's  child.  She  is  as  dead  to  me  as  though 
she  were  buried  vtdth  her  mother,  and  it  is  nothing  to  me 
what  she  is  or  what  her  life  is.    I  know  in  time  what  it  will 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  89 

be.  She  has  begun  earlier  than  I  had  supposed,  that  is  all ; 
but  she  is  nothing  to  me.  Oh,  I  care  too  much.  I  cannot  let 
her  mean  anything  to  me;  when  I  do  care,  it  means  so  much 
more  to  me  than  to  other  men.  They  may  pretend  to  laugh 
and  to  forget  and  to  outgrow  it,  but  it  is  not  so  with  me. 
"\Miy,  man,  I  loved  that  cliild's  mother  to  the  day  of  her 
death.  I  loved  that  woman  then,  and  God  help  me !  I  love 
that  woman  still." 

"  Mr.  Caruthers,  I  came  here,  aB  you  say,  on  impulse ;  but 
I  am  glad  I  came,  for  I  have  your  decisive  answer  about  the 
child.  I  have  been  thinking,  since  you  have  been  speaking, 
and  before,  when  I  saw  her  dancing  in  front  of  the  footlights, 
when  I  did  not  know  who  she  was,  that  I  could  give  up  a 
horse  or  two,  if  necessary,  and  support  this  child  instead. 
Children  are  worth  more  than  horses.  As  you  say,  it 's  a 
good  deal  of  an  experiment,  but  I  think  I  '11  run  the  risk." 
He  walked  quickly  to  the  door  and  disappeared  in  the  hall, 
and  then  came  back,  kicking  the  door  open  as  he  returned, 
and  holding  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"  This  is  she ;  this  is  your  child.  She  will  need  to  be  fed 
a  bit.  She  is  thin  and  peaked  and  tired-looking."  He  drew 
up  the  loose  sleeve  of  her  jacket,  and  showed  the  bare  forearm 
to  the  light.  "  It  is  vei7  thin,  and  under  her  eyes  you  can  see 
how  deep  the  lines  are.  This  red  spot  on  her  cheek  is  where 
the  chorus  girls  kissed  her,  but  they  will  never  kiss  her  again. 
She  is  going  to  grow  up  a  sweet,  fine,  beautiful  woman.  It 
seems  a  pity  she  will  grow  up  without  knowing  who  her 
father  is,  or  was,  if  he  should  die." 

The  child  in  his  arms  stirred,  shivered  slightly,  and  awoke. 
She  raised  her  head  and  stared  around  the  unfamiliar  room 
doubtfully,  then  turned  to  where  her  father  stood,  looking 
at  him  a  moment,  and  passed  him  by ;  and  then  looking  up 
into  Van  Bibber's  face,  recognized  him,  and  gave  a  gentle, 
sleepy  smile,  and  with  a  sigh  of  content  and  confidence,  drew 
her  arm  up  closer  around  his  neck,  and  let  her  head  fall  back 
upon  his  breast. 

The  father  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  quick,  jealous  gasp  of 
pain. 

"  Give  her  to  me  !    She  is  mine ;  give  her  to  me !  " 

Van  Bibber  closed  the  door  gently  behind  him,  and  went 
jumping  down  the  winding  stairs  of  the  Berkley,  three  steps 
at  a  time. 

And  an  hour  later,  when  the  English  servant  came  to  his 


90  SELECTED   READINGS 

master's  door,  he  found  him  still  awake  and  sitting  in  the 
dark  by  the  open  window,  holding  something  in  his  arms  and 
looking  out  over  the  sleeping  city. 

"  James,  you  can  make  up  a  place  for  me  here  on  the 
lounge.  Miss  Caruthers,  my  daughter,  will  sleep  in  my  room 
to-night." 


EiCHAED  Harding  Davis. 


Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


A    PASSION    IN    THE    DESERT 

DUEHSTG  an  expedition  in  Upper  Egypt  a  Provengal 
soldier  was  made  a  prisoner  by  the  Arabs  and  taken 
into  the  desert  beyond  the  falls  of  the  Nile.  In  order  to 
place  a  sufhcient  distance  between  themselves  and  the  French 
army,  the  Arabs  made  forced  marches,  and  rested  only  dur- 
ing the  night.  They  camped  round  a  well  overshadowed  by 
palm  trees. 

Not  dreaming  that  the  notion  of  flight  would  occur  to  their 
prisoner,  they  contented  themselves  with  binding  his  hands 
and  went  to  sleep.  "When  the  brave  Provengal  saw  that  his 
enemies  were  no  longer  watching  him,  he  made  use  of  his  teeth 
to  seize  a  scijnitar,  fixed  the  blade  between  his  knees,  and  cut 
the  cords  which  prevented  him  from  using  his  hands.  In  a 
moment  he  was  free.  He  at  once  seized  a  rifle  and  a  dagger, 
leapt  on  to  a  horse,  and  spurred  on  vigorously  in  the  direc- 
tion where  he  thought  to  find  the  French  army.  So  impa- 
tient was  he  that  he  pressed  on  the  already  tired  courser  at 
such  speed  that  its  flanks  were  lacerated  with  his  spurs,  and 
at  last  the  poor  animal  died,  leaving  the  Frenchman  alone 
in  the  desert.  After  walking  some  time  in  the  sand  the  sol- 
dier was  obliged  to  stop,  as  the  day  had  already  ended. 

In  spite  of  the  beauty  of  an  Oriental  sky  at  night,  he  felt 
he  had  not  strength  enough  to  go  on.  Fortunately  he  had 
been  able  to  find  a  small  hill,  on  the  summit  of  which  a  few 
palm  trees  shot  up  into  the  air ;  his  fatigue  was  so  great  that 
he  lay  down  in  a  natural  grotto  and  fell  asleep.  In  the  middle 
of  the  night  his  sleep  was  troubled  by  an  exti'aordinary  noise; 
he  sat  up,  and  the  deep  silence  around  him  allowed  him  to  dis- 
tinguish the  alternating  accents  of  a  respiration  whose  savage 
energy  could  not  belong  to  a  human  creature. 

He  almost  felt  his  hair  stand  on  end,  when  by  straining 
his  eyes  to  their  utmost  he  perceived  a  huge  animal  lying  but 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  91 

two  steps  from  him.  Presently  the  reflection  of  the  moon 
lit  up  the  den,  rendering  gradually  visible  and  resplendent 
the  spotted  skin  of  a  panther  curled  up  like  a  big  dog.  Her 
eyes  opened  for  a  moment  and  closed  again;  her  face  was 
turned  toward  the  man.  A  thousand  confused  thoughts 
passed  through  the  Frenchman's  mind ;  first  he  thought  of 
killing  it  with  a  bullet  from  his  gun,  but  he  saw  there  was 
not  enough  distance  between  them  for  liim  to  take  proper 
aim  —  the  shot  would  miss  the  mark.  And  if  the  beast  were 
to  wake !  —  the  thought  made  his  limbs  rigid.  He  listened 
to  his  own  heart  beating  in  the  midst  of  the  silence. 

Twice  he  placed  his  hand  on  his  scimitar  intending  to  cut 
off  the  head  of  his  enemy;  to  miss  would  be  to  die  for  cer- 
tain, he  thought ;  he  preferred  the  chances  of  fair  fight,  and 
made  up  liis  mind  to  wait  till  morning. 

A  bold  thought  brought  daylight  to  his  soul  and  checked 
the  cold  sweat  which  sprang  forth  on  his  brow.  He  resolved 
to  play  his  part  with  honor  to  the  last. 

When  the  sun  appeared,  the  panther  suddenly  opened  her 
eyes ;  then  she  put  out  her  paws  with  energy,  as  if  to  stretch 
them  and  get  rid  of  cramp ;  then  turned  her  head  toward  the 
man  and  looked  at  him  fixedly  without  moving.  He  looked 
at  her  caressingly,  staring  into  her  eyes  in  order  to  magnetize 
her,  and  let  her  come  quite  close  to  him ;  then  with  a  gentle 
movement  he  passed  his  hand  over  her  body. 

The  animal  waved  her  tail  voluptuously,  and  her  eyes  grew 
gentle;  and  when  for  the  third  time  the  Frenchman  accom- 
plished this  interesting  flattery  she  gave  forth  one  of  those 
purrings  by  which  our  cats  express  their  pleasure.  When  he 
felt  sure  of  having  extinguished  the  ferocity  of  his  capricious 
companion  by  redoubling  his  caresses  he  got  up  to  go  out  of 
the  cave.  As  the  panther's  hunger  had  fortunately  been  sat- 
isfied the  day  before,  she  let  him  go  out,  and  when  he  had 
reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  she  sprang  after  him  and 
rubbed  herself  against  his  legs,  putting  up  her  back  after  the 
manner  of  all  the  race  of  cats.  Then  regarding  her  guest 
with  eyes  whose  glare  had  softened  a  little,  she  gave  vent  to 
a  wild  cry.  The  Frenchman  began  to  play  with  her  ears;  he 
scratched  her  head  as  hard  as  he  could.  When  he  saw  he  was 
successful  he  tickled  her  skull  with  the  point  of  his  dagger, 
watching  for  the  moment  to  kill  her. 

The  Sultana  of  the  desert  showed  herself  gracious  to  her 


92  SELECTED   READINGS 

slave ;  she  lifted  her  head,  stretched  out  her  neck,  and  mani- 
fested her  delight  b}'  tlie  ti'anquillity  of  her  attitude.  It  sud- 
denly occurred  to  the  soldier  that  to  kill  this  savage  princess 
with  one  blow  he  must  poniard  her  in  the  throat.  He  raised 
the  blade,  when  the  panther  laid  herself  gracefully  at  his 
feet,  and  cast  up  at  him  glances  in  which,  in  spite  of  their 
natural  fierceness,  was  mingled  confusedly  a  kind  of  good- 
will. The  poor  Provengal  leaned  against  one  of  the  palm- 
trees,  casting  his  eye  upon  the  desert  in  quest  of  some  libera- 
tor. He  tried  if  he  might  walk  up  and  down.  And  the 
panther  left  him  free,  contenting  herself  with  following  him 
with  her  eyes,  observing  everything  and  every  movement  of 
her  master.  The  soldier  conceived  the  wild  hope  of  continu- 
ing on  good  terms  with  the  panther,  neglecting  no  means  of 
taming  her  and  remaining  in  her  good  graces.  When  he 
returned  to  her,  he  had  the  unspeakable  joy  of  seeing  her  wag 
her  tail  with  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  at  his 
approach. 

He  sat  down  without  fear  by  her  side  and  they  began  to 
play  together ;  he  took  her  paws  and  muzzle,  pulled  her  ears, 
rolled  her  over  on  her  back,  stroked  her  warm  delicate  flanks. 
The  man,  however,  kept  his  dagger  in  one  hand  thinking  to 
plunge  it  into  the  too-confiding  panther,  but  he  was  afraid 
that  he  would  be  immediately  strangled  in  her  last  convulsive 
struggle;  besides,  he  felt  in  his  heart  sort  of  remorse  which 
bid  him  respect  a  creature  that  had  done  him  no  harm.  He 
seemed  to  have  found  a  friend,  in  a  boundless  desert;  half 
unconsciously  he  thought  of  his  first  sweetheart,  whom  he  had 
nicknamed  "  Mignonne."  This  memory  of  his  early  days 
suggested  to  him  the  idea  of  making  the  young  panther  an- 
swer to  this  name.  Toward  the  end  of  the  day  he  had  famil- 
iarized himself  with  his  perilous  position,  and  almost  liked 
the  painfulness  of  it.  .  .  .  The  soldier  waited  with  impa- 
tience for  the  hour  when  Mignonne  should  fall  asleep,  which 
she  did  at  the  setting  of  the  sun ;  then  he  prepared  for  flight 
in  the  direction  of  the  Nile.  Hardly  had  he  made  a  quarter 
of  a  league  in  the  sand  when  he  heard  the  panther  bounding 
after  him,  crying  with  that  saw-like  cry  more  dreadful  even 
than  the  sound  of  her  leaping. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  she 's  taken  a  fancy  to  me ;  she  has  never 
met  any  one  before,  and  it  is  really  quite  flattering  to  have 
her  first  love."    That  instant  the  man  fell  into  one  of  those 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  93 

treacherous  quicksands  so  terrible  to  travellers,  and  from 
which  it  is  impossible  to  save  oneself.  Feeling  himself 
caught,  he  gave  a  shriek  of  alarm,  the  panther  seized  him  with 
her  teeth  b}-  the  collar,  and,  springing  vigorously  backwards, 
drew  him  as  if  by  magic  out  of  the  whirling  sand.  "  Ah, 
Mignonne,  we  are  bound  together  for  life  and  death." 

From  that  time  the  desert  seemed  inhabited.  It  contained 
a  being  to  whom  the  man  could  talk,  and  whose  ferocity  was 
rendered  gentle  by  him,  though  he  could  not  explain  to  him- 
self the  reason  for  their  strange  friendship. 

One  dav  in  a  bright  midday  sun,  an  enormous  bird  coursed 
through  the  air.  The  man  left  his  panther  to  look  at  this 
new  guest;  but  after  waiting  a  moment  the  deserted  Sul- 
tana growled  deeply.  "  I  do  believe  she  's  jealous,"  cried  the 
soldier,  seeing  her  eyes  become  hard  again.  The  man  and 
the  panther  looked  at  one  another  with  a  look  full  of  mean- 
ing; the  coquette  quivered  when  she  felt  her  friend  stroke 
her  head;  her  eyes  flashed  like  lightning  —  then  she  shut 
them  tightly. 

"  She  has  a  soul,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  stillness  of  this 
queen  of  the  sands,  golden  like  them,  white  like  them,  soli- 
tary and  burning  like  them. 

But  this  passion  of  the  desert  ended  as  all  great  passions 
do  end  —  by  a  misunderstanding.  From  some  reason  one  sus- 
pects the  other  of  treason ;  they  don't  come  to  an  explanation 
through  pride,  and  quarrel  and  part  from  sheer  obstinacy. 

"I  don't  know  if  I  hurt  her,"  said  the  soldier,  "but  she 
turned  round,  as  if  enraged,  and  with  her  sharp  teeth  caught 
hold  of  my  leg  —  gently,  I  daresay;  but  I,  thinking  she 
would  devour  me,  plunged  my  dagger  into  her  throat.  She 
rolled  over,  giving  a  cry  that  froze  my  heart;  and  I  saw  her 
dying,  still  looking  at  me  without  anger.  I  would  have 
given  all  the  world  to  bring  her  to  life  again.  It  was  as 
though  I  had  murdered  a  real  person.  The  soldiers  who 
finally  came  to  my  assistance  found  me  in  tears. 

"  Since  then  I  have  been  in  war  in  Germany,  in  Spain,  in 
Russia,  in  France;  but  never  have  I  seen  anything  like  the 
desert.  It  is  very  beautiful  and  what  you  feel  there  cannot 
be  described.  In  the  desert,  you  see,  there  is  everything,  and 
nothing.    It  is  God  without  manlcind." 

liONORE   DE   BalZAC. 

Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


94  SELECTED   READINGS 


FREDERICK    OF    THE    ALBERIGHI    AND 
HIS    FALCON 

IN  Florence  there  was  a  young  man  called  Frederick,  son 
of  Master  Philip  Alberiglii,  who  for  military  ability  and 
for  courteous  manners  was  reputed  above  all  other  gentlemen 
of  Tuscany.  He  became  enamored  of  a  gentle  lady  called 
Madam  Giovanna,  in  her  time  considered  the  most  beautiful 
and  the  most  graceful  woman  in  Florence.  In  order  that 
he  might  win  her  love  he  tilted  and  exercised  in  ari]is,  made 
feasts  and  presents,  and  silent  all  his  substance  without  re- 
straint. But  Madam  Giovanna,  no  less  honest  than  beauti- 
ful, cared  not  for  him  or  for  those  things  which  he  did  for 
her.  Frederick  then  spent  more  than  his  means  admitted, 
his  money  disappeared,  and  he  remained  poor  and  without 
any  other  property  than  a  little  farm,  by  the  income  of  which 
he  was  barely  able  to  live;  besides  this,  he  had  his  falcon, 
one  of  the  best  in  the  world. 

Now  it  happened  one  day,  when  Frederick  had  come  to 
extreme  poverty,  that  the  husband  of  Madam  Giovanna  be- 
came ill  and  died.  Eemaining  then  a  widow,  she  went  that 
summer  with  her  son  into  the  country  on  an  estate  of  hers 
near  to  that  of  Frederick.  It  happened  that  this  boy,  hav- 
ing many  times  seen  Frederick's  falcon  fly,  took  an  extreme 
pleasure  in  it  and  desired  very  greatly  to  have  it,  but  did 
not  dare  to  ask  it,  seeing  that  it  was  so  dear  to  Frederick. 

In  this  state  of  things  it  happened  that  the  boy  became 
ill.  The  mother,  sorrowing  gently,  tended  him  constantly 
and  begged  him,  if  there  was  anything  that  he  wanted,  to 
tell  her  and  if  it  were  possible  she  would  obtain  it  for 
him. 

The  young  man  said :  "  Mother,  if  you  can  manage  that 
I  should  have  Frederick's  falcon,  I  believe  that  I  should  get 
well  at  once." 

The  mother  knew  that  Frederick  had  long  loved  her,  and 
that  he  had  never  received  from  her  even  a  look.  On  this 
account  she  said :  "  How  can  I  send  to  him  or  go  to  him,  to 
ask  for  this  falcon,  which  is  the  thing  that  he  most  loves, 
and  which  besides  maintains  him  in  the  world."  Finally, 
the  love  of  her  son  overcoming  her,  she  decided  to  satisfy 
him,  whatever  might  happen,  and  she  replied :  "  My  son, 
be  comforted  and  try  to  get  well,  for  I  promise  you  that  the 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  95 

first  thing  that  I  do  to-morrow  will  be  to  go  and  bring  to 
you  the  falcon." 

The  lady  the  next  day  took  a  companion,  and  went  to  the 
house  of  Frederick  and  asked  for  him.  Frederick  having 
saluted  her  with  reverence,  she  said :  "  Frederick,  I  have 
come  to  recompense  you  for  the  losses  which  you  have  al- 
ready had  on  my  account;  and  the  reparation  is,  then,  that 
I  intend  with  this  my  companion  to  dine  with  you  familiarly 
to-day." 

To  this  Frederick  humbly  replied :  "  Madam,  if  ever  I 
was  worth  anytliing,  it  is  due  to  your  worth,  and  to  the  love 
which  I  have  borne  you ;  and  certainly  your  frank  visit  is 
dearer  to  me  than  would  have  been  the  being  able  to  spend 
as  much  more  as  I  have  already  spent,  for  you  have  come  to 
a  very  poor  house."  So  saying,  he  received  them  into  his 
house  in  humility  and  conducted  them  into  his  garden;  and 
then  said :  '^  Madam,  since  there  is  no  one  else,  this  good 
woman,  the  wife  of  my  gardener,  will  keep  you  company 
while  I  go  to  arrange  the  table." 

He,  although  his  poverty  was  so  great,  had  not  yet  real- 
ized how  he  had,  without  method  or  pleasure,  spent  his  for- 
tune; but  this  morning,  finding  nothing  with  which  he 
could  do  honor  to  the  lady,  he  suffered  extremely;  he  cursed 
his  fortune,  and  as  a  man  beside  himself,  ran  hither  and 
thither,  finding  neither  money  nor  anything  to  pawn.  At 
length,  his  desire  being  to  honor  the  gentle  lady  in  some  man- 
ner, and  not  wishing  to  call  on  anybody  else  but  rather  to 
do  all  himself,  his  eye  fell  upon  his  beloved  falcon,  which 
was  on  its  perch  above  the  table.  He  therefore  took  it,  and 
finding  it  fat,  and  not  having  any  other  resource,  he  con- 
sidered it  to  be  a  proper  food  for  such  a  woman;  and  with- 
out thinking  any  further,  he  wrung  its  neck  and  ordered 
his  servant  that  it  be  prepared  and  roasted  immediately. 
And  setting  the  table  with  the  whitest  of  linen,  of  which  he 
had  a  little  left,  with  a  delighted  countenance  he  returned 
to  the  lady  and  told  her  that  such  dinner  as  he  was  a1)le  to 
prepare  for  her  was  ready.  Thereupon,  the  lady  with  her 
companion  went  to  dinner,  and  without  knowing  what  Fred- 
erick served,  ate  the  good  falcon. 

Then,  leaving  the  table,  she  began  amicably  to  say  to 
Frederick :  "  Frederick,  recalling  your  past  life  and  my 
honesty,  which  perhaps  you  considered  cruelty  and  severity, 
I  do  not  doubt  in  the  least  that  you  will  be  astonished  at  my 


96  SELECTED   READINGS 

presumption,  hearing  what  I  have  come  for;  but  if  you  had 
ever  had  children,  it  seems  to  me  certain  that  in  part  ,you 
would  excuse  me.  But  as  you  have  not,  I,  who  have  a  son, 
cannot  escape  the  law  common  to  all  mothers,  and  ask  of 
you  a  gift  which  I  know  is  extremely  dear  to  you ;  that  gift 
is  your  falcon,  of  which  my  boy  has  become  so  strongly 
enamored,  that  if  I  do  not  take  it  to  him  I  fear  I  may  lose 
him  in  consequence.  Therefore  I  pray  you,  not  on  account 
of  the  love  which  you  bear  me,  but  because  of  your  gener- 
osity, which  has  shown  greater  courtesy  than  that  of  any 
other  man,  that  you  would  be  so  kind,  so  good,  as  to  give  it 
to  me,  in  order  that  by  this  gift  the  life  of  my  son  may  be 
preserved  and  I  be  forever  under  obligation  to  you." 

Frederick,  knowing  that  he  could  not  serve  her,  because 
he  had  already  given  it  to  her  to  eat,  began  to  weep  so  that 
he  could  not  speak  a  word  in  reply.  The  lady  at  first  be- 
lieved it  to  be  for  sorrow  at  having  to  give  up  his  good  fal- 
con, and  was  about  to  tell  him  that  she  did  not  want  it. 

Then  Frederick  spoke  thus :  "  Madam,  since  it  pleased 
God  that  I  bestow  my  love  upon  you,  money,  influence,  and 
fortune  have  been  contrary  to  me,  and  have  given  me  great 
trouble ;  but  all  these  things  are  trivial  in  comparison  with 
what  fortune  makes  me  at  present  suffer;  for  which  I  shall 
never  have  peace,  thinking  that  you  have  come  here  to  my 
poor  house  —  to  which  while  I  was  rich  you  never  deigned 
to  come  —  and  asked  of  me  a  little  gift,  and  that  fortune 
has  so  decreed  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  give  it  to  you.  When 
I  heard  that  you  in  your  kindness  wished  to  dine  with  me, 
I  considered  it  worthy  and  proper  to  give  you  the  most 
precious  food  in  my  power,  and  therefore  had  the  falcon 
prepared  for  you;  but  now  seeing  that  you  have  desired  it 
in  another  manner,  the  sorrow  that  I  cannot  so  please  you 
is  so  great  that  never  again  shall  I  have  peace.  Saying  this, 
he  brought  before  them  the  feathers  and  the  feet  and  the 
beak  in  e^ddence. 

The  lady  first  blamed  him,  then  praised  the  greatness  of 
his  mind,  which  his  poverty  had  not  been  able  to  diminish. 
Then,  there  being  no  hope  of  having  the  falcon,  she  de- 
parted in  sadness  and  returned  to  her  son;  who,  either  for 
grief  at  not  being  able  to  have  the  falcon,  or  for  the  illness 
which  perhaps  had  brought  him  to  this  state,  did  not  sur- 
vive for  many  days,  and,  to  the  great  sorrow  of  his  mother, 
passed  from  this  life. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  97 

She,  full  of  sorrow,  remaining  rich  and  3^oung,  was  urged 
many  times  by  her  brothers  to  marry.  Eemembering  the 
worth  of  Frederick,  and  that  he  had  killed  his  beloved  falcon 
to  honor  her,  she  said  to  her  brothers:  "  I  would  willingly 
if  it  please  you,  remain  as  1  am;  but  if  it  please  you  more 
that  I  should  take  a  husband,  certainly  I  shall  never  take 
any  other  if  I  do  not  take  Frederick  degli  Alberighi." 

At  this  her  brothers,  making  fun  of  her,  said :  "  Silly 
creature,  what  do  you  say?  Why  do  you  choose  him?  He 
has  nothing  in  the  world." 

To  this  she  replied :  "  My  brothers,  I  know  very  well  that 
it  is  as  you  say;  but  I  would  rather  have  a  man  who  has 
need  of  riches,  than  riches  without  a  man." 

Boccaccio. 

Adapted  hy  Anna  Morgan. 

DOMINFS    TRIUMPH* 

A  SILENCE  had  fallen  between  Domini  and  Androvsky 
which  neither  seemed  able  to  break.  They  rode  on 
side  by  side  across  the  sands  toward  the  north  through  the 
long  day.  The  towers  of  Amara  faded  in  the  sunshine  above 
the  white  crests  of  the  dunes.  The  Arab  villages  upon  their 
little  hills  disappeared  in  the  quivering  gold.  Dreams  of 
the  mirage  rose  and  faded  far  off  on  the  horizon,  rose  and 
faded  mystically,  leaving  no  trembling  trace  behind.  And 
they  were  silent  as  the  mirage,  she  in  her  purpose,  he  in  his 
wonder.  And  the  long  day  waned,  and  toward  evening  the 
camp  was  pitched  and  the  evening  meal  was  prepared.  And 
still  they  could  not  speak. 

Sometimes  Androvsky  watched  her,  and  there  was  a  great 
calm  in  her  face,  but  there  was  no  rebuke,  no  smallness  of 
anger,  no  hint  of  despair.  Always  he  had  felt  her  strength 
of  mind  and  body,  but  never  so  much  as  now.  Could  he 
rest  on  it?  Dared  he?  He  did  not  know.  And  the  day 
seemed  to  him  to  become  a  dream,  and  the  silence  recalled 
to  him  the  silence  of  the  monastery  in  which  he  had  wor- 
shipped God.  He  rode  on  and  on  beside  her,  and  his  sense 
of  a  dream  deepened,  helped  by  the  influence  of  the  desert. 
Where  were  they  going?  Ho  did  not  know.  What  was  her 
purpose?     He  could  not  tell.     But  he  felt  that  she  had  a 

♦  Bv  permifinion  of  the  avthor  and  the  publishers  of  "  The  Garden  of  Allah," 
Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 

7 


98  SELECTED   READINGS 

purpose,  that  her  mind  was  resolved.  The  desert  understood 
their  silence,  clothed  it  in  a  silence  more  vast  and  more 
impenetrable.  And  Androvsky  had  made  his  effort.  He  had 
spoken  the  truth  at  last.  He  could  do  no  more.  He  was 
incapable  of  any  further  action.  As  Domini  felt  herself  to 
be  in  the  hands  of  God,  he  felt  himself  to  be  in  the  hands 
of  this  woman  who  had  received  his  confession  with  this 
wonderful  calm,  who  was  leading  him  he  knew  not  whither 
in  this  wonderful  silence. 

When  the  camp  was  pitched,  however,  he  noticed  some- 
thing that  caught  him  sharply  away  from  the  dreamlike, 
unreal  feeling,  and  set  him  face  to  face  with  fact  that  was 
cold  as  steel.  Always  till  now  the  dressing-tent  had  been 
pitched  beside  their  sleeping-tent,  with  the  flap  of  the  en- 
trance removed,  so  that  the  two  tents  communicated.  To- 
night it  stood  apart,  near  the  sleeping-tent,  and  in  it  was 
placed  one  of  the  small  camp  beds.  Androvsky  was  alone 
when  he  saw  this.  On  reaching  the  halting-place  he  had 
walked  a  little  way  into  the  desert.  When  he  returned  he 
found  this  change.  It  told  him  something  of  what  was 
passing  in  Domini's  mind,  and  it  marked  the  transformation 
of  their  mutual  life.  As  he  gazed  at  the  two  tents  he  felt 
stricken,  yet  he  felt  a  curious  sense  of  something  that  was 
like  —  was  it  not  like  —  relief?  It  was  as  if  his  body  had 
received  a  frightful  blow  and  on  his  soul  a  saint's  hand  had 
been  gently  laid,  as  if  something  fell  about  him  in  ruins, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  building  which  he  loved,  and  which 
for  a  moment  he  had  thought  tottering,  stood  firm  before 
him  founded  upon  rock.  He  was  a  m.an  capable  of  a  pas- 
sionate belief,  despite  his  sin,  and  he  had  always  had  a  pas- 
sionate belief  in  Domini's  religion.  That  morning,  when  she 
came  out  to  him  in  the  sand,  a  momentary  doubt  had  as- 
sailed him.  He  had  known  the  thought,  "  Does  she  love  me 
still  —  does  she  love  me  more  than  she  loves  God  ?  "  Now, 
as  he  looked  at  the  two  tents,  a  white  light  seemed  to  fall 
upon  Domini's  character,  and  in  this  white  light  stood  the 
ruin  and  the  house  that  was  founded  upon  a  rock.  He  was 
torn  by  conflicting  sensations  of  despair  and  triumph.  She 
was  what  he  had  believed.  That  made  the  triumph.  But 
since  she  was  that  where  was  his  future  with  her  ?  The  monk 
and  the  man  who  had  fled  from  the  monastery  stood  up 
within  him  to  do  battle.  The  monk  knew  triumph,  but  the 
man  was  in  torment. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  99 

Presently,  as  Androvsky  looked  at  the  two  tents,  the  monk 
in  him  seemed  to  die  a  new  death,  the  man  who  had  left  the 
monastery  to  know  a  new  resurrection.  He  was  seized  by 
a  furious  desire  to  go  backward  in  time,  to  go  backward  but 
a  few  hours,  to  the  moment  when  Domini  did  not  know  what 
now  she  knew.  He  cursed  himself  for  what  he  had  done. 
At  last  he  had  been  able  to  pray.  Yes,  but  what  was  prayer 
now,  what  was  prayer  to  the  man  who  looked  at  the  two  tents 
and  understood  what  they  meant?  He  moved  away  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  near  to  the  two  tents.  He  did 
not  know  where  Domini  was.  Never  in  the  monastery,  never 
even  in  the  night  when  he  left  it,  had  he  been  tormented  like 
this.  For  now  he  had  a  terrible  companion  whom,  at  that 
time,  he  had  not  known.  Memory  walked  with  him  before 
the  tents,  the  memory  of  his  body,  recalling  and  calling  for 
the  past. 

He  had  destroyed  that  past  himself.  But  for  him  it  might 
have  been  also  the  present,  the  future.  It  might  have  lasted 
for  years,  perhaps  till  death  took  him  or  Domini.  Why  not  ? 
He  had  only  had  to  keep  silence,  to  insist  on  remaining  in 
the  desert,  far  from  the  busy  ways  of  men.  They  could  have 
lived  as  certain  others  lived,  who  loved  the  free,  the  solitary 
life,  in  an  oasis  of  their  own,  tending  their  gardens  of  palms. 
Life  would  have  gone  like  a  sunlit  dream.  And  death?  At 
that  thought  he  shuddered.  Death  —  what  would  that  have 
been  to  him?  What  would  it  be  now  when  it  came?  He 
put  the  thought  from  him  with  force,  as  a  man  thrusts  away 
from  him  the  filthy  hand  of  a  clamoring  stranger  assailing 
him  in  the  street. 

This  evening  he  had  no  time  to  think  of  death.  Life  was 
enough,  life  with  this  terror  which  he  had  deliberately  placed 
in  it. 

He  thought  of  himself  as  a  madman  for  having  spoken  to 
Domini.  He  cursed  himself  as  a  madman.  For  he  knev/, 
although  he  strove  furiously  not  to  know,  how  irrevocable 
was  his  act,  in  consequence  of  the  great  strength  of  her 
nature.  He  knew  that  though  she  had  been  to  him  a  woman 
of  fire  she  might  be  to  him  a  woman  of  iron  —  even  to  him 
whom  she  loved. 

How  she  had  loved  liini ! 

He  walked  faster  before  tlie  tents,  to  and  fro. 

How  she  had  loved  him!  How  she  loved  him  still,  at  this 
moment,  after  she  knew  what  he  was,  what  he  had  done  to 


100  SELECTED    READINGS 

her.  He  had  no  doubt  of  her  love  as  he  walked  there.  He 
felt  it,  like  a  tender  hand  upon  him.  But  that  hand  was  in- 
flexible too.  In  its  softness  there  was  firmness  — •  firmness 
that  would  never  yield  to  any  strength  in  him. 

Those  two  tents  told  him  the  story  of  her  strength.  As  he 
looked  at  them  he  was  looking  into  her  soul.  And  her  soul 
was  in  direct  conflict  with  his.  That  was  what  he  felt.  She 
had  thought,  she  had  made  up  her  mind.  Quietly,  silently 
she  had  acted.  By  that  action,  without  a  word,  she  had 
spoken  to  him,  told  him  a  tremendous  thing.    And  the  man 

—  the  passionate  man  who  had  left  the  monastery  —  loose 
in  him  now  was  aflame  with  an  impotent  desire  that  was 
like  a  heat  of  fury  against  her,  wliile  the  monk,  hidden  far 
down  in  him,  was  secretly  worshipping  her  cleanliness  of 
spirit. 

But  the  man  who  had  left  the  monastery  was  in  the  as- 
cendant in  him,  and  at  last  drove  him  to  a  determination 
that  the  monk  secretly  knew  to  be  utterly  vain.  He  made 
up  his  mind  to  enter  into  conflict  with  Domini's  strength. 
He  felt  that  he  must,  that  he  could  not  quietly,  without  a 
word,  accept  this  sudden  new  life  of  separation  symbolized 
for  him  by  the  two  tents  standing  apart. 

In  the  distance,  under  the  palms,  he  saw  the  poet  Batouch. 

"  Batouch !  "  he  called  out  sharply.     "  Batouch !     Where 

—  where  is  Madame?" 

With  a  sweeping  arm  the  poet  pointed  toward  a  hump  of 
sand  crowned  by  a  few  palms.  Domini  was  sitting  there, 
surrounded  by  Arab  children,  to  whom  she  was  giving  sweets 
out  of  a  box.  As  Androvsky  saw  her  the  anger  in  him  burnt 
up  more  fiercely. 

He  looked  again  at  the  two  tents  as  a  man  looks  at  two 
enemies.  Then,  walking  quickly,  he  approached  Domini. 
She  did  not  see  him.  The  little  Arabs  were  dancing  round 
her  on  their  naked  feet.  Androvsky  gazed  at  the  woman  who 
was  causing  this  childish  joy,  and  he  saw  a  profound  sad- 
ness. Never  had  he  seen  Domini's  face  look  like  this.  It 
was  always  white,  but  now  its  whiteness  was  like  a  whiteness 
of  marble.  One  of  the  children  saw  him,  shrieked,  pointed. 
Domini  glanced  round.  As  she  saw  him  she  smiled,  threw 
the  last  sugar-plums  and  came  toward  him.  "  Do  you  want 
me?" 

"  Yes,  I  want  you.  Domini  —  Domini.  You  can  —  you 
can  play  with  children  —  to-day." 


PROSE  SELECTIONS  101 

"  I  wanted  to  feel  I  could  give  a  little  happiness  to-day  — 
even  to-day." 

To-day  when  —  when  to  me  —  to  me  —  you  are  giving 


But  before  her  steady  gaze  all  the  words  he  had  meant  to 
say,  all  the  words  of  furious  protest,  died  on  his  lips. 

"  To  me  —  to  me " 

"  Boris,  I  want  to  give  you  one  thing,  the  thing  that  you 
have  lost.    I  want  to  give  you  back  peace." 

''  You  never  can." 

"  I  must  try.  Even  if  I  cannot,  I  shall  know  that  I  have 
tried." 

"  You  are  giving  me  —  you  are  giving  me  not  peace,  but  a 
sword." 

She  understood  that  he  had  seen  the  two  tents. 

"  Sometimes  a  sword  can  give  peace." 

"  The  peace  of  death." 

"  Boris  —  my  dear  one  —  there  are  many  kinds  of  deaths. 
Try  to  trust  me.  Leave  me  to  act  as  I  must  act.  Let  me  try 
to  be  guided  —  only  let  me  try.'' 

He  did  not  say  another  word. 

That  night  they  slept  apart  for  the  first  time  since  their 
marriage. 

"  Domini,  where  are  you  taking  me  ?  Wliere  are  we 
going?" 

The  camp  was  struck  once  more  and  they  were  riding 
through  the  desert.  Domini  hesitated  to  answer  his  ques- 
tion.   It  had  been  put  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  We  are  going  back  to  Beni-Mora." 

"  We  are  going  to  Beni-Mora !  "    We  are " 

He  sat  up  on  the  wall,  looking  straight  into  her  face. 

"Why?" 

"  Boris,  do  you  want  to  be  at  peace,  not  with  me,  but  witli 
God?  Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  your  burden  of  misery, 
which  increases  — ■  I  know  it  —  day  by  dav  ?  " 

"  How  can  T  ?  " 

"  Is  n't  expiation  the  only  way?    I  think  it  is." 

"  Expiation  !  How  —  how  can  —  I  can  never  expiate  my 
sin." 

"  There  's  no  sin  that  cannot  be  expiated.  Cod  is  n't  merci- 
less. Come  back  with  me  to  Beni-Mora.  That  little 
church  —  where  you  married  me  —  come  back  to  it  with  me. 


102  SELECTED   READINGS 

Where  you  mamed  me  you  will  — •  you  must  —  make  your 
confession." 

"  That  was  your  purpose !  That  is  where  you  are  taking 
me !  I  can't  go,  I  won't !  Domini,  think  what  you  are 
doing !    You  are  asking  too  much " 

"  I  feel  that  God  is  asking  that  of  you.  Don't  refuse 
Him." 

"  I  cannot  go  —  at  Beni-Mora  where  we  —  where  every- 
thing will  remind  us " 

"  Ah,  don't  vou  think  I  shall  feel  it  too?  Don't  you  think 
I  shall  suffer?"" 

"  But  our  lives  —  but  —  if  I  go  —  afterwards  —  if  I  make 
my  confession  —  afterwards  —  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Is  n't  it  enough  to  think  of  that  one  thing  ?  Is  n't  it 
better  to  put  everything  else,  every  other  thought,  away? 
It  seems  so  clear  to  me  that  we  should  go  to  Beni-Mora.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  told  —  as  a  child  is  told  to  do  something 
by  its  father." 

She  looked  up  into  the  clear  sky. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  been  told.    I  know  I  have." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  Androvsky  felt 
that  he  did  not  dare  to  break  it.  Something  in  Domini's  face 
and  voice  cast  out  from  him  the  instinct  of  revolt,  of  protest. 
He  began  to  feel  exhausted,  without  power,  like  a  sick  man 
who  is  being  cai-ried  by  bearers  in  a  litter,  and  who  looks  at' 
the  landscape  through  which  he  is  passing  with  listless  eyes, 
and  who  scarcely  has  the  force  to  care  whither  he  is  being 
borne. 

"  Domini,  if  you  say  I  must  go  to  Beni-Mora,  I  will  go. 
I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong  and  —  and " 

"  Don't  think  of  me  any  more.    Thinlv  —  think  as  I  do  — 

of  —  of What  am  I  ?    I  have  loved  you,  I  shall  always 

love  you,  but  I  am  as  you  are,  here  for  a  little  while,  else- 
where for  all  eternity.  You  told  him  —  that  man  in  the 
monastery  —  that  we  are  shadows  set  in  a  world  of  shadows." 

"  That  was  a  lie.  When  I  said  that  I  had  never  loved,  I 
had  never  loved  you." 

"  Or  was  it  a  half-truth  ?  Are  n't  we,  perhaps,  shadow  now 
in  comparison  to  what  we  shall  be  ?  Is  n't  this  world,  even 
this  — •  this  desert,  this  pool  with  the  light  on  it,  this  silence 
of  the  night  around  us  —  is  n't  all  this  a  shadow  in  compari- 
son to  the  world  where  we  are  going,  you  and  I?  Boris,  I 
think  if  we  are  brave  now  we  shall  be  together  in  that  world. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  103 

But  if  we  are  cowards  now,  I  think,  I  am  sure,  that  in  that 
world  —  the  real  world  —  we  shall  be  separated  forever. 
You  and  I,  whatever  we  may  be,  whatever  we  may  have  done, 
at  least  are  one  thing  —  we  are  believers.  We  don't  think 
this  is  all.  If  we  did,  it  would  be  different.  But  we  can't 
change  the  truth  that  is  in  our  souls,  and  as  we  can't  change 
it  we  must  live  by  it,  we  must  act  by  it.  We  can't  do  anything 
else.  I  can't  —  and  you?  Don't  you  feel,  don't  you  know, 
that  you  can't  ?  " 

"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  that  I  know  nothing  —  noth- 
ing except  that  I  am  suffering." 

His  voice  broke  on  the  last  words.  After  a  long  silence  lie 
said: 

"  Domini,  take  me  where  you  will.  If  it  is  to  Beni-Mora  I 
will  go.    But  —  but  —  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  afterwards,  Boris.  That  song  we 
have  heard  together,  that  song  we  love  — '  ISTo  one  but  God 
and  I  knows  what  is  in  my  heart.'  I  hear  it  now  so  often, 
always  almost.  It  seems  to  gather  meaning,  it  seems  to  — 
God  knows  what  is  in  your  heart  and  mine.  He  will  take 
care  of  the  —  afterwards.  Perhaps  in  our  hearts  already  He 
has  put  a  secret  knowledge  of  the  end." 

"  Has  He  —  has  He  put  it  —  that  knowledge  —  into 
yours  ?  " 

"  Hush !  "  she  said. 

She  understood  all  the  agony  of  spirit  he  was  enduring,  all 
the  shame  against  which  he  was  fighting.  She  longed  to 
spring  up,  to  take  him  in  her  arms,  to  comfort  him  as  only 
the  woman  he  loves  and  who  loves  him  can  comfort  a  man, 
without  words,  by  the  pressure  of  her  arms,  the  pressure  of 
her  lips,  the  beating  of  her  heart  against  his  heart.  She 
longed  to  do  this  so  ardently  that  she  moved  restlessly, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  he  had 
never  seen  in  them  before.  But  she  did  not  lift  her  hand 
to  his. 

"  Boris,"  she  said,  "  go.    God  will  be  with  you." 

After  a  moment  she  added : 

"  And  all  my  heart." 

He  stood,  as  if  waiting,  a  long  time.  She  had  ceased  from 
moving  and  had  withdrawn  her  eyes  from  his.  In  his  soul  a 
voice  was  saying,  "  If  she  does  not  touch  you  now  she  will 
never  touch  you  again."  And  he  waited.  He  could  not  help 
waiting. 


104  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  Boris,"  she  whispered,  "  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye !  "  he  said,  and  went  out  without  another  word. 

And  now  Domini  knew  a  moment  of  utter  despair,  in  which 
all  things  seemed  to  dissolve  into  atoms  and  sink  down  out  of 
her  sight.  She  stood  quivering  in  blackness.  She  stood  ab- 
solutely alone,  more  absolutely  alone  than  any  woman  had 
ever  been,  than  any  human  being  had  ever  been.  She  seemed 
presently,  as  the  blackness  faded  into  something  pale,  like  a 
ghastly  twilight,  to  see  herself  standing  in  a  vast  landscape, 
vast  as  the  desert,  eompanionless,  lost,  forgotten,  out  of  mind, 
watching  for  something  that  would  never  come,  listening  for 
some  voice  that  was  hushed  in  eternal  silence. 

That  was  to  be  her  life,  she  thought  —  could  she  face  it  ? 
Could  she  endure  it?  And  everything  within  her  said  to  her 
that  she  could  not. 

And  then,  just  then,  when  she  felt  that  she  must  sink  down 
and  give  up  the  battle  of  life,  she  seemed  to  see  by  her  side  a 
shape,  a  little  shape  like  a  child.  And  it  lifted  up  a  hand  to 
her  hand. 

And  she  knew  that  the  vast  landscape  was  God's  garden, 
the  Garden  of  Allah,  and  that  no  day,  no  night  could  ever 
pass  without  God  walking  in  it. 

EOBEET   HiCHENS. 

Abridged  ly  Anna  Morgan. 

THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY* 

I  SUPPOSE  that  very  few  casual  readers  of  the  New  York 
Herald  of  August  13,  1863,  observed,  in  an  obscure 
corner,  among  the  "  Deaths,"  the  announcement : 

"Nolan.  Died,  on  board  U.  S.  Corvette  Levant,  Lat.  2° 
11'  S.,  Long.  131°  W.,  on  the  11th  of  May,  Philip  Nolan." 

There  are  hundreds  of  readers  who  would  have  paused  at 
that  announcement,  if  the  officer  who  reported  it  had  chosen 
to  make  it  thus:  "Died,  May  11,  The  Man  Without  a 
Country." 

It  seems  to  me  worth  while  to  tell  a  little  of  his  story,  by 
way  of  showing  young  Americans  of  to-day  what  it  is  to  be 
A  Man  Without  a  Country. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  105 

Philip  Nolan  was  as  fine  a  young  officer  as  there  was  in 
the  "  Lesfion  of  the  "West."  When  Aaron  Burr  made  his  first 
dashing  expedition  down  to  New  Orleans  in  1805,  he  met, 
as  the  Devil  would  have  it,  this  gay,  dashing,  bright  young 
fellow;  at  some  dinner-party,  I  think.  Burr  marked  him, 
talked  to  him,  walked  with  him,  took  him  a  day  or  two's 
voyage  in  his  flatboat,  and,  in  short,  fascinated  him.  For  the 
next  year,  barrack-life  was  very  tame  to  poor  Nolan.  He 
occasionally  availed  himself  of  the  permission  the  great  man 
had  given  him  to  write  to  him.  Long,  high-worded,  stilted 
letters  the  poor  boy  wrote  and  rewrote  and  copied.  But  never 
a  line  did  he  have  in  reply  from  the  gay  deceiver.  The  other 
boys  in  the  garrison  sneered  at  him,  because  he  sacrificed  his 
time  in  this  unrequited  affection  for  a  politician.  But  one 
day  Nolan  had  his  revenge.  This  time  Burr  came  down  the 
river  not  as  an  attorney  seeking  a  place  for  his  office,  but  as 
a  disguised  conqueror.  It  was  rumored  that  he  had  an  army 
behind  him  and  an  empire  before  him.  It  was  a  great  day  — 
his  arrival  —  to  poor  Nolan.  Burr  had  not  been  at  the  fort 
an  hour  before  he  sent  for  him.  That  evening  he  asked 
Nolan  to  take  him  out  in  his  skiff,  to  show  him  a  canebrake 
or  a  Cottonwood  tree,  as  he  said  —  really  to  seduce  him ;  and 
by  the  time  the  sail  was  over,  Nolan  was  enlisted  body  and 
soul.  From  that  time,  though  he  did  not  yet  know  it,  he 
lived  as  a  man  without  a  country. 

Wliat  Burr  meant  to  do  I  know  no  more  than  you.  It  is 
none  of  our  business  just  now.  Only,  when  the  grand  catas- 
trophe came,  and  Jefferson  and  the  House  of  Virginia  of  that 
day  undertook  to  break  on  the  wheel  all  the  possible  Clarences 
of  the  then  House  of  York,  by  the  great  treason  trial  at  Rich- 
mond, some  of  the  lesser  fry  in  that  distant  Mississippi 
Valley  introduced  the  like  novelty  on  their  provincial  stage; 
and,  to  while  away  the  monotony  of  the  smnmer  at  Fort 
Adams,  got  up,  for  spectacles,  a  string  of  court-martials  on 
the  officers  there.  One  and  another  of  the  colonels  and  majors 
were  tried,  and,  to  fill  out  the  list,  little  Nolan,  against  whom. 
Heaven  knows,  there  was  evidence  enough  —  tluit  he  was  sick 
of  the  service,  had  been  willing  to  be  false  to  it,  and  would 
have  obeyed  any  order  to  march  anywhither  with  any  one  who 
would  follow  him  had  the  order  been  signed  "  By  command 
of  His  Exc.  A.  Burr."  The  courts  dragged  on.  The  big  flies 
escaped  —  rightly,  for  all  I  know.  Nolan  was  proved  guilty. 
Yet  you  and  I  would  never  have  heard  of  him,  but  that,  when 


106  SELECTED    READINGS 

the  president  of  the  court  asked  him  at  the  close  whether  he 
wished  to  say  anything  to  show  that  he  had  always  been  faith- 
ful to  the  United  States,  he  cried  out  in  a  fit  of  frenzy : 

"  Damn  the  United  States !  I  wish  I  may  never  hear  of 
the  United  States  again !  " 

I  suppose  he  did  not  know  how  the  words  shocked  old  Col- 
onel Morgan,  who  was  holding  the  court.  To  him  "  United 
States "  was  scarcely  a  reality.  Yet  he  had  been  fed  by 
"  United  States  "  for  all  the  years  since  he  had  been  in  the 
Army.  He  had  sworn  on  liis  faith  as  a  Christian  to  be  true 
to  "  United  States."  It  was  "  United  States  "  which  gave 
him  the  uniform  he  wore,  and  the  sword  by  his  side.  Nay, 
my  poor  Nolan,  it  was  only  because  "  United  States  "  had 
picked  you  out  first  as  one  of  her  own  confidential  men  of 
honor  that  "  A.  Burr  "  cared  for  you  a  straw  more  than  for 
the  flatboat  men  who  sailed  his  ark  for  him.  I  do  not  excuse 
Nolan;  I  only  wish  to  explain  why  he  damned  his  country, 
and  wished  he  might  never  hear  her  name  again. 

He  heard  her  name  but  once  again.  From  that  moment, 
September  23,  1807,  till  the  day  he  died,  May  11,  1863,  he 
never  heard  her  name  again.  For  that  half-century  and  more 
he  was  a  man  without  a  country. 

Old  Morgan,  as  I  said,  was  terribly  shocked.  He  called  the 
court  into  his  private  room,  and  returned  in  fifteen  minutes, 
with  a  face  like  a  sheet,  to  say : 

"  Prisoner,  the  court  decides,  subject  to  the  approval  of 
the  President,  that  you  never  hear  the  name  of  the  United 
States  again."    Then  added : 

"  Mr.  Marshal,  take  the  prisoner  to  Orleans  in  an  armed 
boat,  and  deliver  him  to  the  naval  commander  there.  See 
that  no  one  mentions  the  United  States  to  the  prisoner. 
Make  my  respects  to  Lieutenant  Mitchell  at  Orleans,  and  re- 
Cjuest  him  to  order  that  no  one  shall  mention  the  United 
States  to  the  prisoner  while  he  is  on  board  ship.  You  will 
receive  your  written  orders  from  the  officer  on  duty  here  this 
evening.    The  court  is  adjourned  without  day." 

Colonel  Morgan  himself  took  the  proceedings  of  the  court 
to  Washington  and  explained  them  to  Mr.  Jefferson.  The 
President  approved  them,  and  before  the  Nautilus  got  round 
to  the  northern  Atlantic  coast  with  the  prisoner  on  board,  the 
sentence  had  been  approved,  and  he  was  a  man  without  a 
counti-y. 

The  original  paper  of  instructions  ran  much  in  this  way : 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  107 

"  Washington  (with  a  date  which 
must  have  been  Late  in  1807). 

"  Sir  :  —  You  will  receive  from  Lieutenant  Neale  the  per- 
son of  Philip  Nolan,  late  a  lieutenant  in  the  United  States 
Armv. 

"  This  person  on  his  trial  by  court-martial  expressed,  with 
an  oath,  the  wish  that  he  might  '  never  hear  of  the  United 
States  again.' 

"  The  court  sentenced  him  to  have  his  wish  fulfilled. 

"  For  the  present,  the  execution  of  the  order  is  intrusted 
by  the  President  to  this  Department. 

"  You  will  take  the  prisoner  on  board  your  ship,  and  keep 
him  there  with  such  precautions  as  shall  prevent  his  escape. 

"■  You  will  provide  him  with  such  quarters,  rations,  and 
clothing  as  would  be  proper  for  an  officer  of  his  late  rank  if 
he  were  a  passenger  on  your  vessel  on  the  business  of  his 
Government. 

"  The  gentlemen  on  board  will  make  any  arrangements 
agreeable  to  themselves  regarding  his  society.  He  is  to  be 
exposed  to  no  indignity  of  any  kind,  nor  is  he  ever  unneces- 
sarily to  be  reminded  that  he  is  a  prisoner. 

"  JBut  under  no  circumstances  is  he  ever  to  hear  of  his 
countrv  or  to  see  any  information  regarding  it ;  and  you  will 
especially  caution  all  the  officers  under  your  command  to  take 
care  that,  in  the  various  indulgences  which  may  be  granted, 
this  rule,  in  which  his  punishment  is  involved,  shall  not  be 
broken. 

"  It  is  the  intention  of  the  Government  that  he  shall  never 
again  see  the  country  which  he  has  disowned.  Before  the 
end  of  your  cruise  you  will  receive  orders  which  will  give 
effect  to  this  intention. 

"  Eespectfully  yours, 

"  W.  Southard,  for  the 

"  Secretary  of  the  Navy." 

The  rule  adopted  on  board  the  ships  on  which  I  have  met 
"the  man  without  a  country"  was,  I  think,  transmitted 
from  the  beginning.  No  mess  liked  to  have  him  permanently, 
because  his  presence  cut  off  all  talk  of  home  or  of  the  prospect 
of  return,  of  politics  or  letters,  of  peace  or  of  war  —  cut  off 
more  than  half  the  talk  men  like  to  have  at  sea.  But  it  was 
always  thouglit  too  hard  that  he  should  never  meet  the  rest 
of  us,  except  to  touch  hats,  and  we  finally  sank  into  one 


108  SELECTED   READINGS 

system.  He  was  not  permitted  to  talk  with  the  men  unless 
an  oflBcer  was  by.  With  officers  he  had  unrestrained  inter- 
course, as  far  as  they  and  he  chose.  But  he  grew  shy,  though 
he  had  favorites.  Then  the  captain  always  asked  him  to  din- 
ner on  Monday.  Every  mess  in  succession  took  up  the  invi- 
tation in  its  turn.  His  breakfast  he  ate  in  his  own  stateroom 
—  which  was  where  a  sentinel  or  somebody  on  the  watch 
could  see  the  door.  And  whatever  else  he  ate  or  drank,  he 
ate  or  drank  alone.  Sometimes,  when  the  marines  or  sailors 
had  any  special  jollification,  they  were  permitted  to  invite 
"  Plain-Buttons,"  as  they  called  him.  Then  Nolan  was  sent 
with  some  officer,  and  the  men  were  forbidden  to  speak  of 
home  while  he  was  there.  They  called  him  "  Plain-Buttons  " 
because,  while  he  always  chose  to  wear  a  regulation  army  uni- 
form, he  was  not  permitted  to  wear  the  army  button,  for  the 
reason  that  it  bore  either  the  initials  or  the  insignia  of  the 
country  he  had  disowned. 

Nolan  must  have  been  near  eighty  when  he  died.  He 
looked  sixty  when  he  was  forty.  But  he  never  seemed  to  me 
to  change  a  hair  afterwards.  As  I  imagine  his  life,  from 
what  I  have  seen  and  heard  of  it,  he  must  have  been  in  every 
sea,  and  yet  almost  never  on  land.  He  must  have  known, 
in  a  formal  way,  more  officers  in  our  service  than  any  man 
living  knows.  He  told  me  once,  with  a  grave  smile,  that  no 
man  in  the  world  lived  so  methodical  a  life  as  he.  "  You 
know  the  boys  say  I  am  the  Iron  Mask,  and  you  know  how 
busy  he  was."  Pie  said  it  did  not  do  for  any  one  to  try  to 
read  all  the  time,  more  than  to  do  anything  else  all  the  time, 
but  that  he  read  just  five  hours  a  day.  "  Then,"  he  said,  "  I 
keep  up  my  note-books,  writing  in  them  at  such  and  such 
hours  from  what  I  have  been  reading,  and  I  include  in  these 
my  scrap-books."  These  were  very  curious  indeed.  He  had 
six  or  eight,  of  different  subjects.  There  was  one  of  History, 
one  of  Natural  Science,  one  which  he  called  "  Odds  and 
Ends."  But  they  were  not  merely  books  of  extracts  from 
newspapers.  They  had  bits  of  plants  and  ribbons,  shells  tied 
on,  and  carved  scraps  of  bone  and  wood,  which  he  had  taught 
the  men  to  cut  for  him,  and  they  were  beautifully  illustrated. 
He  drew  admirably.  He  had  some  of  the  funniest  drawings 
there,  and  some  of  the  most  pathetic  that  I  have  ever  seen  in 
my  life.  The  men  used  to  bring  him  birds  and  fish,  but  on  a 
long  cruise  he  had  to  satisfy  himself  with  centipedes  and  cock- 
roaches and  such  small  game.    He -was  the  only  naturalist  I 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  109 

ever  met  who  knew  anything  about  the  habits  of  the  house-fly 
and  the  mosquito. 

He  always  kept  up  his  exercise,  and  I  never  heard  that  he 
was  ill.  If  any  other  man  was  ill,  he  was  the  kindest  nurse 
in  the  world ;  and  he  knew  more  than  half  the  surgeons  do. 
Then,  if  anybody  was  sick  or  died,  or  if  the  captain  wanted 
him  to,  on  any  other  occasion,  he  was  always  ready  to  read 
prayers.    He  read  beautifully. 

There  is  a  story  that  JSTolan  met  Burr  once  on  one  of  our 
vessels,  when  a  party  of  Americans  came  on  board  in  the 
Mediterranean.  But  it  is  clear  from  Buri-'s  life  that  nothing 
of  the  sort  could  have  happened. 

So  poor  Philip  Nolan  had  his  wish  fulfilled.  He  repented 
of  his  folly,  and  then,  like  a  man,  submitted  to  the  fate  he 
had  asked  for.  The  following  excerpt  from  a  letter  gives  an 
account  of  Nolan's  last  hours. 

"  Levant,  2°  2'  S.  @  131°  W. 

"  Dear  Fred  :  —  I  try  to  find  heart  and  life  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  all  over  with  dear  old  Nolan.  I  have  been  with  him 
on  this  voyage  more  than  I  ever  was,  and  I  can  vmderstand 
wholly  now  the  way  in  which  you  used  to  speak  of  the  dear 
old  fellow.  I  could  see  that  he  was  not  strong,  but  I  had  no 
idea  the  end  was  so  near.  The  poor  fellow  lay  in  his  berth, 
smiling  pleasantly  as  he  gave  me  his  hand.  I  could  not  help 
a  glance  round,  which  showed  me  what  a  little  shrine  he  had 
made  of  the  box  he  was  lying  in.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  were 
triced  up  above  and  around  a  picture  of  Washington,  and  he 
had  painted  a  majestic  eagle,  with  lightnings  blazing  from  his 
beak  and  his  foot  just  clasping  the  whole  globe,  which  his 
wings  overshadowed.  The  dear  old  boy  saw  my  glance,  and 
said,  witli  a  sad  smile,  '  Here,  you  see,  I  have  a  country ! ' 
And  then  he  pointed  to  the  foot  of  his  bed,  where  I  had  not 
seen  before  a  great  map  of  tlie  United  States,  as  he  had 
drawn  it  from  memon,',  and  which  he  had  there  to  look  upon 
as  he  lay.  Quaint,  queer  old  names  were  on  it,  in  large  let- 
ters :  '  Indiana  Territory,' '  Mississippi  Territory,'  and  '  Louis- 
iana Territory','  as  I  suppose  our  fathers  learned  such  things. 
But  the  old  fellow  had  patched  in  Texas,  too ;  he  had  carried 
his  western  boundar}^  all  the  way  to  the  Pacific,  but  on  tliat 
shore  he  had  defined  nothing. 

" '  Oh,  Danforth,'  he  said,  '  I  know  I  am  dying.  I  cannot 
get  home.     Surely  you  will  tell  me  something  now?     Stop! 


110  SELECTED   READINGS 

Stop  !  Do  not  speak  till  I  say  what  I  am  sure  you  know,  that 
there  is  not  in  this  ship,  that  there  is  not  in  America  —  God 
bless  her !  —  a  more  loyal  man  than  I.  There  cannot  be  a 
man  who  loves  the  old  flag  as  I  do,  or  prays  for  it  as  I  do,  or 
hopes  for  it  as  I  do.  There  are  thirty-four  stars  in  it  now, 
Danforth.  I  thank  God  for  that,  though  I  do  not  know  what 
their  names  are.  There  has  never  been  one  taken  away;  I 
thank  God  for  that.  I  know  bv  that  that  there  has  never  been 
any  successful  Burr.  Oh,  Danforth,  Danforth,  how  like  a 
wretched  night's  dream  a  boy's  idea  of  personal  fame  or  of 
separate  sovereignty  seems,  when  one  looks  back  on  it  after 
such  a  life  as  mine !  But  tell  me  —  tell  me  something  — 
tell  me  ever}i;hing,  Danforth,  before  I  die !  Tell  me  their 
names,'  he  said,  and  he  pointed  to  the  stars  on  the  flag.  '  The 
last  I  know  is  Ohio.  My  father  lived  in  Kentucky.  But  I 
have  guessed  Michigan  and  Indiana  and  Mississippi  —  that 
was  where  Fort  Adams  is.  They  make  twenty.  But  where 
are  your  other  fourteen?  You  have  not  cut  up  any  of  the 
old  ones,  I  hope  ?  ' 

"  I  told  him  the  names  in  as  good  order  as  I  could,  and  he 
bade  me  take  down  his  beautiful  map  and  draw  them  in  as 
I  best  could  with  my  pencil.  He  was  wild  with  delight  about 
Texas  —  told  me  how  his  cousin  died  there ;  he  had  marked 
a  gold  cross  near  where  he  supposed  his  grave  was;  and  he 
had  guessed  at  Texas.  Then  he  was  delighted  as  he  saw  Cali- 
fornia and  Oregon.  That,  he  said,  he  had  suspected  partly, 
because  he  had  never  been  pemiited  to  land  on  that  shore, 
though  the  ships  were  there  so  much.  '  And  the  men,'  said 
he,  laughing,  '  brought  off  a  good  deal  besides  furs.'  Then 
he  went  back  —  heavens,  how  far !  —  to  ask  about  the  Chesa- 
peake, and  what  was  done  to  Barron  for  surrendering  her  to 
the  Leopard,  and  whether  Burr  ever  tried  again  —  and  he 
ground  his  teeth  with  the  only  passion  he  showed.  But  in  a 
moment  that  was  over,  and  he  said,  '  God  forgive  me,  for  I 
am  sure  I  forgive  him.'  Then  he  asked  about  the  old  war  — 
told  me  the  true  story  of  his  serving  the  gun  the  day  we  took 
the  Java.  Then  he  settled  down  more  quietly,  and  very  hap- 
pily, to  hear  me  tell  in  an  hour  the  history  of  fifty  years. 

"  How  I  wished  it  had  been  somebody  who  knew  some- 
thing !  But  T  did  as  well  as  I  could.  I  told  him  of  the  Eng- 
lish war.  I  told  him  about  Fulton  and  the  steamboat  be.E^in- 
ning.  I  told  him  about  old  Scott,  and  Jackson  —  told  him 
all  I  could  think  of  about  the  Mississippi,  and  New  Orleans, 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  111 

and  Texas,  and  his  own  old  Kentucky.  And  what  do  you 
think  he  asked  ?  '  Who  was  in  command  of  the  Legion  of  the 
West ! '  1  told  him  it  was  a  very  gallant  officer  named  Grant, 
and  that,  by  our  last  news,  he  was  about  to  establish  his  head- 
quarters at  Vicksburg.  Then,  '  Where  was  Vicksburg  ?  '  I 
w'orked  that  out  on  the  map ;  it  was  about  a  hundred  miles, 
more  or  less,  above  his  old  Fort  Adams,  and  I  thought  Fort 
Adams  must  be  a  ruin  now.  '  It  must  be  at  old  Vick's  plan- 
tation, at  Walnut  Hills,'  said  he ;  '  well,  that  is  a  change  ! ' 

"  I  tell  you,  Ingham,  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  condense  the 
history  of  half  a  century  into  that  talk  with  a  sick  man.  And 
I  do  not  now  know  what  I  told  him  —  of  emigration,  and 
the  means  of  it  —  of  steamboats,  and  railroads,  and  tele- 
graphs —  of  inventions,  and  books,  and  literature  —  of  the 
colleges,  and  West  Point,  and  the  Naval  School  —  but  with 
the  queerest  interruptions  that  ever  you  heard.  You  see,  it 
was  Eobinson  Crusoe  asking  all  the  accumulated  questions 
of  fifty-six  years ! 

"  I  remember  he  asked,  all  of  a  sudden,  who  was  President 
now.  And  when  I  told  him,  he  asked  if  Old  Abe  was  General 
Benjamin  Lincoln's  son.  He  said  he  met  old  General  Lin- 
coln, when  he  was  quite  a  boy  himself,  at  some  Indian  treaty. 
I  said  no,  that  Old  Abe  was  a  Kentuckian  like  himself,  but  I 
could  not  tell  him  of  what  family ;  he  had  worked  up  from 
the  ranks.  '  Good  for  him ! '  cried  Nolan ;  '  I  am  glad  of 
that.  As  I  have  brooded  and  wondered,  I  have  thought  our 
danger  was  in  keeping  up  those  regular  successions  in  the  first 
families.'  Then  I  got  talking  about  my  visit  to  Washington. 
I  told  him  of  meeting  the  Oregon  Congressman,  Harding;  I 
told  him  about  the  Smithsonian,  and  the  exploring  Expedi- 
tion ;  I  told  him  about  the  Capitol,  and  the  statues  for  the 
pediment,  and  Crawford's  Liberty,  and  Greenough's  Wash- 
ington. Ingham,  I  told  him  everything  I  could  think  of  that 
would  show  the  grandeur  of  his  country  and  its  prosperity; 
but  I  could  not  make  up  my  mouth  to  tell  him  a  word  about 
this  infernal  rebellion. 

"  And  he  drank  it  in  and  enjoyed  it  as  I  cannot  tell  you. 
He  grew  more  and  more  silent,  yet  I  never  thought  he  was 
tired  or  faint.  I  gave  him  a  glass  of  water,  but  he  just  wet 
his  lips,  and  told  me  not  to  go  away.  Then  he  asked  me  to 
bring  the  Prosbvterian  '  Book  of  Public  Praver,'  winch  lav 
there,  and  said,  with  a  smile,  that  it  would  open  at  the  right 
place  —  and  so  it  did.    There  was  his  double  red  mark  down 


112  SELECTED   HEADINGS 

the  page.  And  I  knelt  down  and  read,  and  he  repeated  with 
me,  '  For  ourselves  and  our  countr}',  oh,  gracious  God,  we 
thank  Thee  that,  notwithstanding  our  manifold  transgres- 
sions of  Thy  holy  laws.  Thou  hast  continued  to  us  Thy  mar- 
vellous kindness '  —  and  so  to  the  end  of  that  thanksgiving. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  end  of  the  same  book,  and  I  read  the 
words  more  familiar  to  me :  '  Most  heartily  we  beseech  Thee 
with  Thy  favor  to  behold  and  bless  Thy  servant,  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States,  and  all  others  in  authority  '  —  and 
the  rest  of  the  Episcopal  collect.  '  Danforth,'  said  he,  '  I 
have  repeated  those  prayers  night  and  morning,  it  is  now 
fifty-five  years.'    And  then  he  said  he  would  go  to  sleep. 

"  He  bent  me  down  over  him  and  kissed  me,  and  he  said, 
'  Look  in  my  Bible,  Danforth,  when  I  am  gone.'  And  I  went 
away. 

"  But  I  had  no  thought  it  was  the  end.  I  thought  he  was 
tired  and  would  sleep.  I  knew  he  was  happy,  and  I  wanted 
him  to  be  alone. 

"  But  in  an  honr,  when  the  doctor  went  in  gently,  he 
found  Nolan  had  breathed  his  life  away  with  a  smile.  He 
had  something  pressed  close  to  his  lips.  It  was  his  father's 
badge  of  the  Order  of  the  Cincinnati. 

"  We  looked  in  his  Bible,  and  there  was  a  slip  of  paper  at 
the  place  where  he  had  marked  the  text : 

"  '  They  desire  a  country,  even  a  heavenly:  wherefore  God 
is  not  ashamed  to  be  called  their  God :  for  He  hath  prepared 
for  them  a  city.' 

"  On  this  slip  of  paper  he  had  written : 

"  '  Bury  me  in  the  sea ;  it  has  been  my  home,  and  I  love  it. 
But  will  not  some  one  set  up  a  stone  for  my  memory  at  Fort 
Adams  or  at  Orleans,  that  my  disgrace  may  not  be  more  than 
I  ought  to  bear  ?    Say  on  it : 

"  '  In  Memory  of 

"'PHILIP    NOLAN, 

Lieutenant  in  the  Army  of  the  Ujiited  States. 

He  loved  his  country  as  no  other  man  has 

loved  her;  but  no  man  deserved 

less  at  her  hands.'  " 

Edward  Everett  Hale. 
Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


te  < 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  US 

TWO    LETTERS    AND    TWO    TELEGRAMS* 


LETTER  from  Benton  Fosdick,  Esq.,  of  New  York,  to 
Thomas  Plankton,  Esq.,  of  Albany. 

My  Dear  Old  Tom  :  —  A  very  momentous  question  — 
that 's  what  I  'm  going  to  ask  you,  and  I  want  you  to  go  into 
a  corner  of  the  club,  quite  by  yourself,  with  a  good  big  cigar, 
and  don't  dismiss  the  subject  from  3'our  mind  till  the  cigar  's 
iinished.    Do  it  for  the  sake  of  our  old  college  chumship. 

There 's  a  girl  I  want  to  marry,  at  least  I  think  I  do,  in 
fact  I  know  I  do.  Shall  I  ?  That 's  the  question.  Of  course 
I  love  her,  or  I  couldn't  feel  this  way,  could  I?  She's 
young,  very  young,  always  talking  about  her  birthday  —  has 
just  had  it,  I  mean,  or  it  is  just  going  to  be  —  something  of 
that  sort.  She 's  beautiful ;  the  kind  of  hair  I  like ;  she 
does  n't  dress  it  in  the  fashion,  and  yet  it  never  seems  out ; 
there  's  no  William  Tell  effect  on  top,  or  a  bath  bun  or  bustle 
at  the  back,  or  Dolly  Vardens  at  the  side,  it 's  just  coiled  away 
somehow,  somewhere,  sort  of  parted  in  front,  and  half-way 
wavy,  without  being  crimpy  or  fancy,  and  is  darkish  —  you 
know  the  kind  I  mean.  Lovely  eyes,  and  all  the  rest  of  it; 
splendid  figure;  hand  full  of  character,  and  awfully  pretty 
Trilbys.  Her  father 's  very  rich  and  only  has  one  other  child, 
80  although  she  has  notions  of  her  own,  financially  it 's  a 
chance  most  any  fellow  would  be  glad  to  speculate  on.  I  only 
mention  this  to  show  you  that  I  have  n't  completely  lost  my 
head ;  of  course,  the  money  does  n't  make  any  difference  to 
me,  only  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  'm  not  altogether 
impracticable. 

Her  position  in  society  is  all  right,  better  than  mine,  and 
her  mother  is  always  on  the  go,  balls  and  parties  and  smaller 
things  for  derniers  ressorts,  so  she  'd  never  be  a  bother. 

Then  the  girl  herself  has  a  mind.  Is  tremendously  inter- 
esting and  original  in  all  her  conversation.  Really  I  often 
ask  her  advice  about  serious  things,  and  take  it,  besides,  and 
always  find  I  am  right.  She  knows  about  art,  and  music, 
and  is  all  around  cultivated.  The  sort  of  girl  you  'd  be 
deuced  proud  of  anywhere.  And  what  I  feel  particularly 
about  her  is  that  she  would  take  such  a  great  interest  in  me 
and  my  work.     She  'd  be  a  constant  stimulant :    she  would 

*  From  "  Somp  Correspondence,"  by  Clydf  Fitch.    Copyright,   ]  896,  by  S(one  Jfc 
Kimball,  Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Successors,  Duffield  &  Company,  Successors. 

8 


114  SELECTED   READINGS 

adopt  all  my  views,  ideas,  and  ambitions ;  she  would  lose  her 
own  self  in  me,  devote  herself  to  my  work,  and  her  life  be 
a:bsorbed  in  mine !  I  wonld  accomplish  twice  what  I  do  now. 
She  could  do  all  the  tedious  mechanical  work  that  takes  so 
much  time  I  might  be  giving  to  other  things.  She  could  help 
me  in  a  thousand  ways.  She  'd  always  be  on  hand  to  protect 
me  from  the  hundred  and  one  sacrifices  that  come  daily  kick- 
ing one  to  take  notice  of  them. 

Maybe  my  love  blinds  me,  but  I  feel  she  has  a  beautiful 
character  fully  capable  of  doing  all  this  for  me.  It  seems  to 
me  it 's  a  chance  in  a  lifetime  that  I  ought  n't  to  let  slip  by. 
And  yet  it 's  an  irretrievable  sort  of  thing,  this  marriage,  and 
I  don't  want  to  go  into  it  too  hastily,  and  perhaps  find  I  'd 
made  a  mistake  after  all  and  ruined  my  career  instead  of 
aiding  it.  So  I  come  to  you,  remembering  the  old  talks  about 
marriage  over  the  midnight  woodfire  that  lasted  almost  till 
we  heard  the  chapel  bell  for  prayers. 

You  were  always  falling  in  love;  I  never.  You  ought  to 
understand  the  business  better  than  I.  (I  heard,  too,  you 
almost  ruined  yourself  a  couple  of  years  ago  for  a  worthless 
girl,  and  nothing  teaches  like  experience.)  Think  it  out 
carefully,  and  send  me  word,  shall  I  marry  her  ? 
Yours  always  sincerely, 

Benton  Fosdick. 

P.  S.  —  I  shall  only  wait  a  day  to  hear  from  you. 

II 

Telegram  from  Thomas  Plankton,  Esq.,  of  ^Albany,  to 
Benton  Fosdick,  Esq.,  of  New  York. 

In  God's  name,  for  the  sake  of  the  girl,  DON'T. 

Tom. 
Ill 

Letter  from  Miss  Beatrice  Hauton,  of  New  York,  to  Ben- 
ton Fosdick,  Esq.,  of  New  York. 

Dear  Mr.  Fosdick  :  —  I  am  very  sorry.  I  trust  I  have  n't 
been  unconsciously  flirting  with  you,  for  to  be  honest,  while 
I  enjoy  enormously  having  you  take  me  in  to  dinner,  I 
could  n't  for  one  moment  think  of  sitting  opposite  to  you  at 
the  breakfast  table !  I  thank  you  sincerely  for  the  honor  you 
pay  me,  but  I  cannot  be  your  wife. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

Beatrice  Hauton. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  115 

IV 

Telegram  from  Benton  Fosdick,  Esq.,  of  New  York,  to 
Thomas  Plankton,  Esq.,  of  Albany, 

Thanks,  old  man.    Have  taken  your  advice.    B.  F. 

Clyde  Fitch. 

A    LOVER    OF    MUSIC* 

JACQUES  dropped  into  his  place  and  filled  it  as  if  it  had 
been  made  for  him.  There  was  something  in  his  dispo- 
sition that  seemed  to  fit  him  for  just  the  role  that  was  vacant 
in  the  social  drama  of  the  settlement.  He  had  literally 
played  his  way  into  the  affections  of  the  village. 

He  was  at  his  best  when  he  was  alone  with  Serena,  in  the 
kitchen.  Serena  was  a  pretty  girl,  and  particularly  fond  of 
reading  and  of  music.  It  was  this  that  made  her  so  glad  of 
the  arrival  of  the  violin. 

"  Where  'd  you  get  your  fiddle,  Jack  ?  " 

"  A  '11  get  heem  in  Kebeck.  Ma  teacher,  to  de  College,  he 
gif  me  dat  violon,  w'en  Ah  was  gone  away  to  de  woods." 

"  And  why  did  you  come  away  from  the  woods  and  travel 
down  this  way  ?  " 

"  Ah  '1  tole  you  somet'ing,  Ma'amselle  Serene.  You  ma 
frien'.  Den  you  h'ask  me  dat  reason  of  it  no  more.  Dat's 
somet'ing  vair'  bad,  bad,  bad.  Ah  can't  nevair  tole  dat  — 
nevair." 

A  man  with  a  secret  in  his  life  ?  The  knowledge  of  it  gave 
Serena  a  new  interest  in  Jacques  and  his  music. 

Once,  and  only  once,  he  seemed  to  come  near  betraying 
himself.  This  was  how  it  happened:  There  was  a  party  at 
Moody's  one  night,  and  Bull  Corey  had  come  down  from  the 
Upper  Lake  and  filled  himself  up  with  whisky.  Bull  was  an 
ugly-tempered  fellow.  The  tide  of  his  pugnacity  that  night 
took  a  straight  set  toward  Fiddlin'  Jack. 

Bull  began  with  musical  criticisms.  The  fiddling  did  not 
suit  him  at  all.  It  was  too  quick,  or  else  it  was  too  slow. 
And  now  he  took  national  grounds.  The  French  were,  in  his 
opinion,  not  a  patch  on  the  noble  American  race.  They 
talked  too  much,  and  their  language  was  ridiculous.  They 
had  a  condemned,  fool  habit  of  taking  off  their  hats  when 
they  spoke  to  a  lady.    They  ate  frogs. 

♦  From  "  The  Ruling  Passion."    Copyright,  1901,  by  Cliarles  Scribner's  Sons. 


116  SELECTED    READINGS 

Having  delivered  himself  of  these  sentiments  he  marched 
over  to  the  table  on  which  Fiddlin'  Jack  was  sitting,  and 
grabbed  the  violin  from  his  hands. 

"  Gimme  that  dam'  fiddle,  till  I  see  if  there  's  a  frog  in  it." 

Jacques  leaped  from  the  table,  transported  with  rage.  His 
face  was  convulsed.  His  eyes  blazed.  He  snatched  a  carving- 
knife  from  the  dresser  behind  him,  and  sprang  at  Corey. 
Half  a  dozen  men  thrust  themselves  between  the  would-be 
combatants.  There  was  a  dead  silence,  a  scuffling  of  feet  on 
the  bare  floor ;  then  the  danger  was  past. 

Jacques  dropped  on  his  knees,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  prayed: 

"  My  God,  it  is  here  again !  Was  it  not  enough  that  I  must 
be  tempted  once  before?  Must  I  have  the  madness  yet  an- 
other time  ?  I  am  a  sinner,  but  not  the  second  time ;  for  the 
love  of  Jesus,  not  the  second  time !  " 

There  was  a  multitude  of  counsellors  discussing  what 
ought  to  be  done  about  the  fracas,  when  Hose  Ransom  settled 
the  case. 

"  Tell  ye  what  we  '11  do.  Jess  nothin'.  Ain't  Bull  Corey 
the  blowin'est  and  the  mos'  trouble-us  cuss  'round  these  hull 
woods  ?  And  would  n't  it  be  a  fust-rate  thing  ef  some  o'  the 
wind  was  let  out  'n  him  ?  And  wa'  n't  Fiddlin'  Jack  peacer- 
able  'nough  's  long  's  he  was  let  alone  ?  Ain't  he  given  us  a 
lot  o'  fun  here  this  winter  in  a  innercent  kind  o'  way,  with 
his  old  fiddle?  I  guess  there  ain't  nothin'  on  airth  he  loves 
better  'n  that  hollor  piece  o'  wood,  and  the  toons  tha  's  inside 
o'  it.    It 's  jess  like  a  wife  or  a  child  to  him." 

So  the  recording  angel  dropped  another  tear  upon  the  rec- 
ord of  Hosea  Eansom,  and  the  books  were  closed  for  the 
night. 

For  some  weeks  after  the  incident  of  the  violin  and  the 
carving  knife,  it  looked  as  if  a  permanent  cloud  had  settled 
upon  the  spirits  of  Fiddlin'  Jack.  He  seemed  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  transformed  into  "  the  melancholy  Jaques." 

It  was  Serena  who  broke  the  spell;  and  she  did  it  in  a 
woman's  way,  the  simplest  way  in  the  world  —  by  taking  no 
notice  of  it. 

Through  all  the  occupations  and  pleasures  of  the  Summer 
Jacques  kept  as  near  as  he  could  to  Serena. 

So  the  Summer  passed  and  by  the  time  Winter  came 
nround  again,  Fiddlin'  Jack  was  well  settled  at  Moody's  as  a 
regular  Adirondack  guide. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  117 


The  second  Summer  brought  him  in  enough  to  commence 
building  a  little  house.  One  day  at  the  beginning  of  May, 
when  the  house  was  nearly  finished,  he  asked  Serena  to  stop 
in  on  her  way  home  from  the  village  and  see  what  he  had 
done.  I  do  not  want  any  one  to  suppose  that  there  was  a 
crisis  in  his  affair  of  the  heart,  for  there  was  none.  Indeed, 
it  is  very  doubtful  whether  anybody  in  the  village,  even 
Serena  herself,  ever  dreamed  that  there  was  such  an  affair. 
Up  to  the  point  when  the  house  was  finished  and  fur- 
nished, it  was  to  be  a  secret  between  Jacques  and  his 
violin. 

Serena  was  something  of  a  sentimentalist,  and  a  great 
reader  of  novels;  but  the  international  love-story  had  not 
yet  been  invented,  and  the  idea  of  getting  married  to  a  for- 
eigner never  entered  her  head.  I  do  not  say  that  she  sus- 
pected nothing  in  the  wild  flowers,  and  the  Sunday  evening 
boat-rides,  and  the  music.  She  was  a  woman.  I  have  said 
already  that  she  liked  Jacques  very  much,  and  his  violin 
pleased  her  to  the  heart.  But  the  new  building  by  the  river? 
I  am  sure  she  never  even  thought  of  it  once,  in  the  way  that 
he  did. 

Well,  in  the  end  of  June,  just  after  the  furniture  had  come 
for  the  house,  Serena  was  married  to  Hose  Eansom.  The 
wedding  was  at  the  Sportsmen's  Eetreat,  and  Jacques  was 
there  of  course.  There  was  nothing  of  the  disconsolate  lover 
about  him.  The  strongest  impulse  in  his  nature  was  to  be 
a  giver  of  entertainment,  a  source  of  Joy  in  others.  And 
especially  was  he  selfish  enough  to  want  to  feel  his  ability  to 
give  Serena  a  pleasure  at  her  wedding  —  a  pleasure  that  no- 
body else  could  give  her.  When  she  asked  him  to  play,  he 
consented  gladly.  Never  had  he  drawn  the  bow  across  the 
strings  with  a  more  magical  touch. 

But  Serena  did  not  have  many  years  to  listen  to  the  play- 
ing of  Jacques  Tremblay,  for  in  the  fourth  year  after  her 
marriage  she  died,  and  Jacques  stood  beside  Hose  at  the 
funeral. 

Hose  Eansom  sold  his  place  on  the  hill,  but  Fiddlin'  Jack 
lived  on  in  the  little  house  beside  the  river,  and  grew  old 
gracefully.  One  Spring  he  caught  a  heavy  cold  and  took  to 
his  bed.  Hose  came  over  to  look  after  him.  Jack  was  going 
to  die.  There  was  a  Canadian  priest  in  town  that  week, 
perhaps  Jack  would  like  to  talk  to  him.  His  face  lighted 
up  at  the  proposal.    Then  the  visitor  came,  a  tall,  friendly, 


118  SELECTED   READINGS 

quiet-looking  man  about  Jacques's  age.  The  door  was  shut, 
and  they  were  left  alone  together. 

"  I  am  comforted  that  you  are  come,  moti  pere,  for  I 
have  the  heavy  heart.  There  is  a  secret  that  I  have  kej^t  for 
many  years,  but  now  it  is  the  time  to  speak.  I  have  a  sin  to 
confess  —  a  sin  of  the  most  grievous,  of  the  most  unpardon- 
able, that  makes  me  fear  to  die.  Long  since,  in  Canada,  be- 
fore I  came  to  this  place,  I  have  killed  a  man.  It  was,  it  was 
in  the  camp,  on  the  river  St.  Maurice.  The  big  Baptiste 
Lacombe,  that  crazy  boy  who  wants  always  to  fight,  he  mocks 
me  when  I  play,  he  snatches  my  violin,  he  goes  to  break  him 
on  the  stove.  There  is  a  knife  in  my  belt.  I  spring  to  Bap- 
tiste. I  see  no  more  what  it  is  that  I  do.  I  cut  him  in  the 
neck  —  once,  twice.  The  blood  flies  out.  He  falls  down. 
He  cries,  '  I  die.'  I  grab  my  violin  from  the  floor,  quick ; 
then  I  run  to  the  woods.  No  one  can  catch  me.  A  blanket, 
the  axe,  some  food,  I  get  from  a  hiding-place  down  the  river. 
Then  I  travel,  travel,  travel  through  the  woods,  how  many 
days  I  know  not,  till  I  come  here.  No  one  knows  me.  I  give 
myself  the  name  Tremblay.  I  make  the  music  for  them. 
With  my  violin  I  live.  I  am  happy.  I  forget.  But  it  all 
returns  to  me  —  now  —  at  the  last.  I  have  murdered.  Is 
there  forgiveness  for  me,  mon  peref^^ 

The  priest's  face  had  changed  very  swiftly  at  the  mention 
of  the  camp  on  the  St.  Maurice.  As  tnte  story  went  on,  he 
grew  strangely  excited.  His  lips  twitched.  His  hands 
trembled.  At  the  end  he  sank  on  his  knees,  and  looked  into 
the  countenance  of  the  sick  man,  searching  it  as  a  forester 
searches  in  the  undergrowth  for  a  lost  trail.  Then  his  eyes 
lighted  up  as  he  found  it. 

"  My  son,  you  are  Jacques  Dellaire.  And  I  —  do  you 
know  me  now  ?  —  I  am  Baptiste  Lacombe.  You  have  not 
murdered.  You  have  given  the  stroke  that  changed  my 
heart.  Your  sin  is  forgiven  —  and  mine  also  —  by  the  mercy 
of  God!" 

The  round  clock  ticked  louder  and  louder.  A  level  ray 
from  the  setting  sun  —  red  gold  —  came  in  through  the 
dusty  window  and  lay  across  the  clasped  hands  on  the  bed. 
The  clock  ticked  on.  But  there  was  a  sweeter  sound  than 
that  in  the  quiet  room. 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  praj^er  which  begins,  in  every  lan- 
guage spoken  by  men,  with  the  name  of  that  Unseen  One  who 
rules  over  life's  chances,  and  pities  its  discords,  and  tunes 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  119 

it  back  again  into  liannony.  Yes,  this  prayer  of  the  little 
children  who  are  only  learning  how  to  play  the  first  notes  of 
life's  music,  turns  to  the  great  Master  musician  who  knows 
it  all  and  who  loves  to  bring  a  melody  out  of  every  instrument 
that  He  has  made ;  and  it  seems  to  lay  the  soul  in  His  hands 
to  play  upon  as  He  will,  while  it  calls  Him,  Our  Father! 

Hentey  van  Dyk:e. 
Adapted  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


FLEAS    WILL    BE    FLEAS* 

MIKE    FLANNERY    was    the    star    boarder    at   Mrs.  ; 

Muldoon's.  j 

"  ^like,"  said  Mrs.  Muldoon,  one  noon,  "  I  know  the  opin-  > 

ion  3'e  have  of  Dagos,  and  niver  a  one  have  I  took  into  me 
house,  and  I  think  the  same  of  thim  meself  —  dirthy  things,  ' 

an'  takin'  the  bread  awav  from  th'  honest  American  laborin'  ' 

man  —  and  I  would  not  be  thinkin'  of  takin'  one  f  board  at  ' 

this  dav,  but  would  ve  to  tell  me  this :  —  Is  a  Frinchmin  a  j 

Dago?'" 

"  Mrs.  Muldoon,  mam,  there  be  two  kinds  of  Frinchmin.  j 

There  be  the  respictible  Frinchmin,  an'  there  be  the  unres-  i 

pictible  Frinchmin.  They  both  be  furriners,  but  they  be 
classed  different.  Th'  respictible  Frinchmin  is  no  worse  than 
the  Dutch,  and  is  classed  as  Dutch,  but  th'  other  kinds  is  | 

Dagos.    But  ye  want  t'  have  nawthing  f  do  with  the  Dago  i 

Frinch.    They  be  a  bad  lot." 

"  There  was  a  Frinchmin  askin'  would  I  give  him  a  room 
and  board  this  mornin',"  said  Mrs.  Muldoon. 

"  If  he  be  a  Dutch  Frinchmin  let  him  come.  Was  he 
that?"  ' 

"  Sure,  I  don't  know.    'T  is  a  professor  he  is." 

"  I  have  heard  of  thim.    But  't  is  of  insects  they  be  pro-  j 

fessors,  and  not  of  one  kind  of  insects  alone,  Mrs.  Muldoon,  ' 

mam.     Ye  have  mistook  th'  understandin'  of  what  he  was  i 

sayin'."  i 

"  I  beg  pardon  to  ye,  but  't  is  not  mistook  I  am.  Fleas 
th'  Professor  said,  and  no  mistake  at  all." 

"  Yis  ?  Well  mebby  't  is  so.  He  would  be  what  ye  call 
one  of  thim  specialists.  They  do  be  doin'  that  now,  I  hear, 
and  't  is  probable  th'  Frinchmin  has  fleas  for  his  specialty. 


*  Reprinted  by  permisaion  of  the  author  and  The  American  Magazine. 


120  SELECTED   READINGS 

'T  is  like  this,  mam :  all  professors  is  professors ;  then  a 
bunch  of  professors  separate  off  from  the  rest  and  be  pro- 
fessors of  insects ;  and  then  the  professors  of  insects  separate 
up,  and  one  is  professor  of  flies  and  another  one  is  profes- 
sor of  pinch  bugs,  and  another  is  professor  of  toads,  and 
another  is  professor  of  lobsters,  and  so  on,  until  all  the  kinds 
of  insects  has  each  a  professor  to  itself.  And  thim  they  call 
specialists,  and  each  one  knows  more  about  his  own  kind  of 
insect  than  any  other  man  in  the  world  knows.  So  mebby 
the  Frinchmin  is  professor  of  fleas,  as  ye  say." 

"  I  should  think  a  grown  man  would  want  to  be  professor 
of  something  bigger  than  that,  but  there  's  no  accountin'  for 
tastes." 

"  If  ye  understand,  mam,  ye  would  not  say  that  same,  for 
to  the  flea  professor  the  flea  is  as  big  as  a  house.  He  studies 
him  through  a  telescope,  Mrs.  ]\Iuldoon,  that  magnifies  th' 
flea  a  million  times.  Th'  flea  professor  will  take  a  dog  with 
a  flea  on  him,  mam,  and  look  at  the  same  with  his  telescope, 
and  the  flea  will  be  ten  times  the  size  of  th'  dog.  'T  is  by 
magnifyin'  th'  flea  that  the  professor  is  able  t'  study  so  small 
an  insect  for  years  and  j-ears,  discoverin'  new  beauties  every 
day.  One  day  he  will  be  studyin'  the  small  toe  of  th'  flea's 
left  hind  foot,  and  th'  next  day  he  will  be  takin'  a  statue  of 
it  in  plaster,  and  th'  next  day  he  will  be  photygraftin'  it, 
and  th'  next  he  will  be  writin'  out  all  he  has  learned  of  it, 
and  then  he  will  be  weeks  and  months  correspondin'  with 
other  flea  professors  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  And  mebby 
he  dies  when  he 's  ninety  years  old  and  has  only  got  one  leg 
of  the  flea  studied  out.  And  then  some  other  professor  goes 
on  where  he  left  ofi",  and  takes  up  the  next  leg." 

"  And  do  they  get  paid  for  it  ?  " 

"  Sure,  they  do  !  Good  money  too.  A  good  specialist  pro- 
fessor gits  more  than  a  hod-carrier.  And  't  is  right  they 
should,  for  't  is  by  studyin'  the  feet  of  fleas,  and  such,  they 
can  learn  about  germs  and  how  t'  take  out  3^our  appendix, 
and  '  Is  marriage  a  failure  ? '  and  all  that." 

"  Ye  dumfounder  me,  Mike  Flannery.  Ye  should  have 
been  one  of  thim  professors  yourself,  what  with  all  the  knowl- 
edge ye  have.  And  ye  think  't  would  be  a  good  thing  t'  let 
th'  little  Frinchmin  come  and  take  a  room  ?  " 

"  'T  would  be  an  honor  to  shake  him  by  th'  band."  And 
so  the  Professor  was  admitted  to  the  board  and  lodging  of 
Mrs.  Muldoon. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  121 

The  Professor  was  a  small  man,  and  not  talkative.  He 
put  his  baggage  in  the  small  bedroom  that  Mrs.  Muldoon 
allotted  to  him,  and  received  the  friendly  advances  of  Flan- 
ner}'  and  the  other  boarders  rather  coldly.  He  refused  to 
discuss  his  specialty  or  show  Mike  the  toe  of  the  left  hind 
foot  of  a  flea  through  the  telescope.  When  he  remained  at 
home  after  dinner  he  did  not  sit  with  the  other  boarders, 
but  walked  up  and  down  the  walk,  smoking  innumerable 
cigarettes,  and  thinking,  and  waving  his  hands  in  mute 
conversations  with  himself. 

"  I  dunno  what  ails  th'  Professor,"  said  Mrs.  Muldoon, 
one  evening  to  Flannery. 

"  I  would  not  like  to  say  for  sure,  mam,  but  I  'm  thinkin' 
't  is  a  loss  he  has  had,  maybe,  that 's  preyin'  on  his  mind. 
Ever  since  ye  told  me.  Missus  Muldoon,  that  he  was  a  pro- 
fessor of  th'  educated  fleas,  I  have  had  doubts  of  th'  state 
of  th'  mind  of  th'  Professor.  Th'  sense  of  studyin'  th'  flea, 
mam,  I  can  understand,  that  bein'  th'  way  all  professors  does 
these  days,  but  't  is  not  human  t'  spend  time  givin'  a  flea  a 
college  education.  I  understand  th'  feelin'  that  makes  a 
man  educate  a  horse.  Yes,  Missus  Muldoon !  If  th'  edu- 
cated horse  or  th'  educated  pig  got  loose  would  they  be  easy 
to  find  again,  or  would  they  not,  mam  ?  And  if  the  Professor 
come  t'  have  a  grrand  love  for  th'  flea  he  has  raised  by  hand, 
and  th'  flea  run  off  from  him,  would  th'  educated  flea  be 
easy  t'  find?  Th'  horse  and  th'  pig  is  animals  that  is  not 
easy  to  conceal  themselves,  Missus  Muldoon,  but  th'  flea  is 
harrd  to  find,  an'  when  ye  have  found  him  he  is  harrd  to  put 
your  thumb  on.  I  'm  thinkin'  the  reason  th'  Professor  is 
so  down  is  that  he  has  lost  tli'  flea  of  his  hearrt.  If  I  be 
not  mistaken.  Missus  Muldoon,  th'  Professor's  educated  flea 
spent  last  night  with  Mike  Flannery.  'T  is  in  me  mind  that 
th'  Professor  has  a  whole  college  of  thim  educated  insects, 
an'  that  he  do  be  lettin'  thim  have  a  vacation.  Or  mebby 
the  class  of  1907  is  graduated  and  turned  loose  from  the 
university,  an'  I  have  no  wish  t'  speak  disrespect  of  thim  as 
is  educated;  but  the  conversation  of  a  gang  of  Frinch  edu- 
cated fleas  is  annoyin'  t'  a  man  that  wants  t'  sleep." 

"  I  will  speak  t'  th'  Professor,  and  remonstrate  with  him," 
answered  Mrs.  Muldoon. 

It  was  late  Sunday  evening.  The  upper  hall  was  dark, 
and  Flanner\'  stole  softly  down  the  hall  in  his  socks  and 
pushed  open  the  Professor's  door.    He  drew  from  his  pocket 


122  SELECTED    READINGS 

an  insect-powder  gun,  and  fired  it.  There  was  no  doubt  in 
the  Professor's  mind.  He  was  being  robbed.  He  seized  a 
pistol  and  fired.  The  bullet  whizzed  over  Mike's  head,  and 
before  the  Professor  could  fire  a  second  time  Flannery  rose 
and  turned  and,  with  a  true  aim,  shot  the  Professor !  Shot 
him  full  in  the  face  with  the  insect  powder,  and  before  the 
blinded  man  could  recover  his  breath,  Flannery  had  liim  by 
the  collar  and  had  jerked  him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  It 
is  true;  he  kicked  him  downstairs. 

That  night  the  Professor  did  not  sleep  in  Westcote,  but 
the  next  afternoon  he  appeared  at  Mrs.  Muldoon's  supported 
by  Monsieur  Jules. 

"  Por  the  keek,  Madame  Muldoon,  I  care  not.  I  have  been 
keek  before.  The  keek  by  one  gentleman,  him  I  resent,  him 
1  revenge ;  the  keek  by  the  base,  him  I  scorn !  I  let  the  keek 
go,  Madame  Muldoon.  Of  the  keek  I  say  not  at  all,  but  the 
flea !  Ah,  the  poor  flea !  Excuse  the  weep,  Madame  Mul- 
doon !  For  the  flea  —  I  have  the  revenge  !  How  you  say  it  ? 
I  will  be  to  have  the  revenge.  I  would  to  be  the  revenge  hav- 
ing. The  revenge  to  having  will  I  be.  Him  will  I  have,  that 
revenge  business !  For  why  I  bring  the  educate  flea  to  these 
United  States?  Is  it  that  they  should  be  deathed?  Is  it 
that  a  Flannery  should  make  them  dead  with  a  —  with  such 
a  thing  like  a  pop  gun?  Is  it  for  those  things  I  educate,  I 
teach,  I  culture,  I  love,  I  cherish  those  flea  ?  Is  it  for  those 
things  I  give  up  wife  and  patrie,  and  immigrate  myself  out 
of  dear  France?  No,  my  madame!  Ah,  I  am  one  heart- 
busted  ! " 

"  Ah,  now  Professor,"  said  Mrs.  Middoon,  soothingly, 
"  don't  bawl  annymore.  There  is  sure  no  use  bawlin'  over 
spilt  milk.  If  they  be  dead,  they  be  dead.  I  would  n't  cry 
over  a  million  dead  fleas." 

"  The  American  flea  —  no  !  "  said  the  Professor,  haughtily. 
"  The  Irish  flea  —  no  !  The  flea  au  naturel  —  no !  But  the 
educate  flea  of  la  belle  France?  The  flea  I  love,  and  teach, 
and  make  like  a  sister,  a  sweetheart  to  me?  The  flea  that 
have  act  up  in  front  of  the  crowned  heads  of  Spain;  that 
have  travel  on  the  ocean ;  that  have  travel  on  the  land  ?  Ah, 
Madame  Muldoon,  it  is  no  common  bunch  of  flea !  Of  my 
busted  feelings  what  will  I  say  ?  Nothings !  Of  my  banged- 
up  heart,  what  will  I  say  ?  Nothings !  But  for  those  dead 
flea,  those  poor  dead  flea,  so  innocents,  so  harmless,  so 
much  money  worth  —  for  those  must  Monsieur  Flannery 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  123 

compensate.  One  dollar  per  each  educate  flea  must  he  pay, 
that  Flannery  !  It  is  the  ultimatum !  I  come  Sunday  at  past 
half  one  on  the  clock.  That  Flannery  will  the  money  ready 
have,  or  the  law  will  be  on  him.    It  is  sufficient !  " 

"  Thief  of  th'  worrld ! "  exclaimed  Flannery,  when  Mrs. 
Muldoon  told  him  the  demand  the  Professor  had  made. 
"  Sure,  I  have  put  me  foot  in  it  this  time,  Missus  Muldoon, 
for  kill  thim  I  did,  and  pay  for  thim  I  must." 

But  the  more  Flannery  thought  about  having  to  pay  out 
one  hundred  dollars  for  one  hundred  dead  insects  the  less  he 
liked  it.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  one  dollar  was  a  reason- 
able price  for  a  flea  that  had  a  good  education.  A  man  could 
hardly  be  expected  to  take  a  raw  country  flea,  as  you  might 
say,  and  educate  it,  and  give  it  graces  and  teach  it  dancing 
and  all  the  accomplishments,  for  less  than  a  dollar.  He  in- 
quired diligently,  seeking  to  leam  the  market  value  of  edu- 
cated fleas.  He  learned  that  the  government  of  the  United 
States,  in  Congress  assembled,  had  recognized  that  insects 
have  a  value,  for  he  found  in  the  list  of  customs  duties  this : 
—  "  Insects,  not  crude,  a  quarter-cent  per  pound  and  10  per 
cent,  ad  valorem." 

He  was  ready  to  meet  the  Professor. 

"  Good  day  to  yez,"  he  said  cheerfully  in  the  little  parlor, 
where  he  found  the  Professor  sitting,  flanked  by  two  fellow- 
countrymen.  "  I  have  come  t'  pay  ye  th'  hunderd  dollars 
Missus  Muldoon  was  tellin'  me  about.  I  am  glad  ye  spoke 
about  it,  for  't  is  always  a  pleasure  to  Mike  Flannery  to  pay 
his  honest  debts,  and  I  might  not  have  thought  of  it  if  ye  had 
not  mentioned  it.  I  was  thinkin'  thim  was  nawthin'  but 
common  ignorant  fleas.  Professor." 

"  Ah,  no  !  The  very  educate  flea !  The  flea  of  wisdom ! 
The  very  teached  flea!  The  truly  French  flea!  From  Paris 
herself.     The  genuine.    The  import  flea." 

"  An'  t'  think  of  a  flea  bein'  worth  a  dollar  I  Thim  can't 
be  crude  fleas  at  sich  a  price,  Professor." 

"  No  !     Certain,  no !  " 

"  Xot  crude,  an'  imported  by  th'  Professor !  'T  is  odd  I 
should  have  seen  a  refirincc  t'  them  very  things  this  very 
day.  Professor.  'T  is  in  this  book  here.  '  Insects,  not  crude, 
one-quarter  cent  ]-)qv  pound  and  tin  cint  ad  valomm.'  I 
dunno,  but  't  is  a  wonderful  tiling  th'  tariff  is.  Wlio  would 
be  thinkin'  tin  years  ago  the  Professor  Jocolino  would  be 
comin'  t'  Ameriky  with  one  hundred  fleas,  not  crude,  in  his 


124  SELECTED   READINGS 

dress-suit  portmanteau?  But  th'  Congress  was  th'  boy  t* 
think  of  everything.  '  Ko  free  fleas ! '  says  they.  '  Look  at 
th'  poor  American  flea,  crude,  an'  uneducated,  an'  see  th' 
struggle  it  has,  competin'  with  th'  flea  of  Europe,  Asia,  an' 
Africa.  Down  with  the  furrin  flea,'  says  Congress,  'pro- 
tect th'  poor  American  insect.  One-quarter  cent  per  pound 
an'  tin  cint  ad  valorum  for  th'  flea  of  Europe !  That 's 
what  Congress  says,"  said  Plannery,  glaring  at  the  Profes- 
sor, "  but  up  Jumps  the  Sinator  from  Califomy.  '  Stop !  * 
he  says,  '  wait !  'T  is  all  right  enough  for  the  East  t'  rule 
out  the  flea,  but  th'  Californian  loves  th'  flea  like  a  brother. 
We  want  free  fleas.'  Then  up  jumps  th'  Sinator  from  New 
York.  '  I  don't  object  t'  th'  plain  or  crude  flea  comin'  in 
free,'  says  he,  '  for  there  be  need  of  thim,  as  me  frind  from 
the  West  says.  What  amusement  would  the  dogs  of  the 
nation  have  but  for  th'  flea?'  says  he.  'But  I'm  thinlcin' 
of  the  sivinty-three  theaytres  on  an'  off  Broadway,'  says  he. 
'  Shall  th'  amusemint  industry  of  th'  metropolis  suffer  from 
th'  incomin'  of  th'  millions  of  educated  an'  trained  fleas  of 
Europe?  Shall  Shakespeare  an'  Belasco  an'  Shaw  be  put 
out  of  business  by  th'  high-toned  flea  theaytres  of  Europe? 
No ! '  says  he.  '  I  move  to  amend  th'  tariff  of  th'  United 
States  t'  read  that  th'  duty  on  insects,  not  crude,  be  one 
fourth  of  a  cent  per  pound  an'  tin  per  cint  ad  valorum,'  says 
he,  '  which  will  give  the  dog  all  th'  crude  fleas  he  wants,  an' 
yit  shut  out  th'  educated  flea  from  compytition  with  grand 
opera  an'  Barnum's  circus.'  An'  so  't  was  voted,"  concluded 
Mike  Flanneiy. 

"Be  asy,  there's  no  hurry.  I'm  waitin'  for  a  frind  of 
mine,  an'  th'  frind  I  'm  lookin'  for  anny  minute  now  is  a 
fine  expert  on  th'  subject  of  th'  tariff  liimself.  O'Halloran 
is  th'  name  of  him  as  is  second  deputy  assistant  collector  of 
evidence  of  fraud  an'  smugglin'  in  th'  revenue  service  of  th' 
United  States.  'T  was  a  mere  matter  of  doubt  in  me  mind. 
I  was  thinkin'  mebby  one  dollar  was  not  enough  t'  pay  for 
a  flea,  not  crude,  so  I  asks  O'Halloran.  '  'T  will  be  easy  t' 
settle  that,'  says  O'Halloran,  '  for  th'  value  of  thim  will  be 
set  down  in  th'  books  of  th'  United  States,  at  th'  time  whin 
th'  Professor  paid  duty  on  thim.'  '  But  mebby  th'  Professor 
paid  no  duty  on  thim.'  '  Make  no  doubt  of  that,'  says  O'Hal- 
loran, '  for  unless  th'  Professor  was  a  fool  he  would  pay  duty 
like  a  man,  for  th'  penalty  is  fine  an'  imprisonmint,'  says 
O'Halloran,  an'  I  make  no  doubt  he  paid  it." 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  125 

Flannery  stopped  and  listened. 

"Is  that  th'  train  from  th'  city  I  hear?  O'Halloran  will 
sure  be  on  it." 

The  Professor  arose.  "  Mon  Dicii!  I  have  lost  the  most 
valued  thing,  the  picture  of  the  dear  mamma.  It  is  lost ! 
It  is  picked  of  the  pocket !  A^illains !  I  go  to  the  police. 
I  return." 

He  did  not  wait  for  permission,  but  Avent,  and  that  was 
the  last  Mike  Planner}^  or  Mrs.  Muldoon  ever  saw  of  him. 

"  An'  t'  thinly  of  me  a  free  trader  every  day  of  me  born 
life,"  said  Mike  Flannery  that  evening  to  Mrs.  Muldoon, 
"  but  I  am  no  more.  I  see  th'  protection  there  is  in  th' 
tariff.  Missus  Muldoon,  mam.  But  annyhow,  I  wonder  what 
is  '  Insects,  not  crude '  ?  " 

Ellis  Parker  Butler. 

Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 

UNCLE    REMUS    ON    AN    ELECTRIC    CAR* 

OXE  pleasant  day  not  long  ago  Uncle  Remus  concluded 
that  he  would  take  a  ride  on  the  electric  car.  He  had 
been  engaged  for  some  time  in  making  up  his  mind.  There 
was  enouofh  of  mvsterv  about  the  means  of  locomotion  to 
make  him  somewhat  skittish.  In  point  of  fact,  he  had  his 
own  private  opinion,  fortified  by  an  abundant  supply  of 
superstition,  in  regard  to  the  whole  matter.  Nevertheless 
he  decided  to  make  a  little  excursion  on  the  car.  Pie  saw 
other  people  riding,  and  what  they  did  he  could  do. 

So  the  old  man  was  on  hand  when  the  car  came  down  to 
the  starting-point,  where  there  is  a  wait  of  five  minutes.  He 
watched  the  conductor  reverse  the  contrivance  that  connects 
the  motor  with  the  overhead  wire,  and  then  he  got  on.  He 
smiled  as  he  took  his  seat,  but  even  his  smile  betrayed  his 
anxiety.  He  fumbled  about  in  his  pockets  until  he  found 
a  quarter,  which  he  proffered  to  the  motor-man. 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  old  man,  the  conductor  will  get 
your  fare." 

"  Yasser,"  said  Uncle  Remus.  "  On  de  t'er  line  whar  dey 
got  muels,  I  hatter  gi'  de  money  ter  de  driver — dat  w'at 
make  I  han'  it  ter  you.  Dish  yer  ain't  de  same  kyar.  Hit 
look  mighty  blank  out  dar.  I  'd  feel  lots  better  ef  dey  wuz  a 
waggin  tongue  stickin'  out  dar,  er  some  muels  or  sump'n." 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


126  SELECTED    READINGS 

"  Why,  if  we  had  mules  out  there,"  said  the  motor-man, 
with  a  consequential  air,  "  they  would  n't  last  five  minutes. 
We  'd  run  over  'em.    We  'd  grind  them  into  giblets." 

"  Boss,  is  de  stuff  what  make  dish  yer  kyar  go  —  is  she 
de  same  ez  dat  w'at  make  de  thunder  ?  " 

"  The  very  same." 

"  Ain't  you  skeered  ?  " 

"•  Naw !  So  long  as  it  don't  singe  the  hair  on  my  head,  I 
ain't  afraid." 

"  Boss,  does  you  keep  de  truck  in  dat  ar  chum  dar  ?  "  in- 
dicating the  brass  cylinder  containing  the  machinery  for 
turning  on  and  shutting  off  the  electric  current. 

Something  in  Uncle  Eemus's  tone  —  some  suggestion  of 
unusual  politeness  and  affability  —  caused  the  motor-man 
to  look  at  him  more  closely,  and  the  look  was  followed  by  a 
pleasant  smile,  which  was  at  once  a  recognition  of  and  a 
tribute  to  the  old  negro's  attitude  of  respectful  anxiety. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  motor-man,  "  we  keep  it  in  here,"  touch- 
ing the  cylinder  with  his  foot,  "  and  when  we  want  any  we 
just  turn  it  on." 

"  Same  like  you  draw  'simmon  beer  out  'n  a  bar'l  ?  " 

"  Yes,  somewhat  similarly." 

"  Sometimes  de  beer  got  sech  a  head  on  'er  dat  she  '11  fly 
out  en  flow  all  over  you.    Do  dat  truck  do  dat  away  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  never  done  it  yet,  and  when  it  does,  I  want  to 
be  plumb  away  from  here." 

"  Ef  it 's  de  same  kinder  truck  what  busts  aloose  in  de 
elements,"  said  Uncle  Remus,  "  dey  must  be  enough  un  it  in 
dat  churn  dar  ter  make  thunder  endurin'  a  whole  Summer." 

The  motor-man  made  no  reply  to  this.  In  response  to  a 
signal  from  the  conductor,  he  struck  the  gong  sharply  with 
his  foot,  causing  Uncle  Eemus  to  dodge  as  if  he  had  been 
shot  at,  turned  on  the  current,  and  started  the  car.  A  negro 
girl  sitting  opposite  Uncle  Eemus  put  a  corner  of  her  shawl 
in  her  mouth  and  tittered.  The  old  man  turned  on  her 
fiercely  and  exclaimed : 

"  Whar  yo'  manners,  gal  ?  Is  dat  de  way  yo'  mammy  I'am 
you  —  come  gigglin'  in  company  ?  " 

"  De  Lord  knows  I  ain't  doin'  nothin',"  said  the  girl,  twist- 
ing herself  around  on  the  seat.  "  I  des  settin'  here  ten'in  to 
my  own  business.    I  wan't  sayin'  a  blessed  word  to  nobody." 

"  Who  you  grinnin'  an'  gigglin'  at,  den  ? "  asked  Uncle 
Eemus,  severely.    "  You  '11  be  a-gwine  on  dat  away  some  er 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  127 

deze  yer  odd-come-shorts,   an'  you  '11  break  yo'  puckerin'- 
string.     Den  what  you  gwine  ter  do  ?  " 

'^  Mister,"  said  the  girl,  turning  to  the  conductor,  "  I 
wish  you  'd  please,  sir,  make  dis  colored  man  lemme  'lone. 
I  ain't  doin'  a  blessed  thing  to  him." 

"  Fare !  "  exclaimed  the  conductor.  He  spoke  so  loudly 
and  so  unexpectedly  that  Uncle  Eemus  dodged  again,  and 
this  time  he  flung  his  right  arm  above  his  head  as  if  to  de- 
fend himself.  This  gave  the  angry  girl  the  opportunity  she 
wanted. 

"  Des  look  at  dat  ole  man ! "  she  cried.  "  I  b'lieve  he 
goin'  crazy."  Then  she  began  to  laugh  again.  Even  the 
conductor  smiled,  and  Uncle  Eemus,  perceiving  this,  smiled 
himself,  but  somewhat  grimly. 

As  the  conductor  was  giving  him  his  change,  a  peculiar 
groaning  sound  issued  from  the  motor  underneath  the  car. 

"  Boss,  wharbouts  is  all  dat  zoonin  ?  Hit  soun'  like  de 
win'  blowin'  thoo  a  knot-hole." 

"  It 's  the  cun-ent,"  said  the  conductor. 

"■'  Yasser !  "  exclaimed  Uncle  Eemus.  "  Dat  what  I  'low'd 
hit  wuz.  Hit  bawlin'  down  dar  like  a  steer  calf  lef  out  in 
de  rain.  She  ain't  gwine  ter  bus'  loose  en  far  up  no  thin', 
is  she,  boss  ?  " 

"  Not  right  now,  I  reckon,"  replied  the  conductor. 

This  was  very  unsatisfactory  to  the  old  negro,  particularly 
as  the  zooning  and  groaning  sound  continued  to  grow  louder. 
He  looked  out  of  the  window,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on 
the  other,  and  then  rose  and  seized  the  handstrap  and  gave 
it  a  jerk.  Seeing  that  the  car  kept  on,  Uncle  Eemus  gave 
the  strap  a  more  violent  tug,  and  then  another  and  another. 

"  Ef  she 's  a-runnin'  away,"  he  exclaimed,  "  des  say  de 
word  en  I  '11  far  up  de  flo',  but  I  '11  git  out  'n  here." 

Seeing  the  old  man's  predicament,  the  conductor  pulled 
the  bell,  and  the  car  stopped. 

"  Dat  what  make  I  say  what  I  does,"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Eemus,  with  some  show  of  indignation,  as  he  shuffled  to- 
ward the  door,  "  I  'm  gwine  ter  tell  you  all  good-bye.  You 
kin  set  dar  en  listen  at  de  interruptions  gwine  on  in  de 
intruls  er  dish  yer  kyar,  but  I  'm  gwine,  I  am.  I  done  foun' 
out  long  ergo  dat  no  'spectable  nigger  ain't  got  no  business 
gwine  whar  white  folks  fear'ed  to  resk  der  muels.  I  wish 
you  mighty  well !  " 

Joel  Chandler  Harris. 


128  SELECTED   READINGS 


A    SPEECH    OF    LINCOLN'S* 

[The  following  is  an  impromptu  address  delivered  by  Abraham 
Lincoln  to  a  caucus  of  his  personal  and  political  friends  in  Springfield, 
Illinois,  in  the  month  of  June,  1858. 

To  that  conference  of  friends  whom  he  trusted  implicitly  Lincoln 
submitted  the  question,  whether  or  not  he  should  make  his  famous 
speech  in  which  he  declares  that  ''a  house  divided  against  itself 
cannot  stand."] 

MY  DEAR  Friends :  The  time  has  come  when  these  senti- 
ments should  be  uttered;  and  if  it  is  decreed  that  I 
shall  go  dowTi  because  of  this  speech,  then  let  me  go  down 
linked  to  the  truth  —  let  me  die  in  the  advocacy  of  what  is 
just  and  right. 

In  taking  this  position,  I  do  not  suspect  that  any  one  of 
you  disagrees  with  me  as  to  the  doctrine  which  I  will  an- 
nounce in  that  speech;  for  I  am  sure  you  would  all  like  to 
see  me  defeat  Douglas.  It  may  be  inexpedient  for  me  to 
announce  such  principles  at  this  time,  but  I  have  given  the 
subject-matter  the  most  patient,  honest,  and  intelligent 
thought  that  I  am  able  to  command,  because  I  have  felt  at 
times,  and  now  feel,  that  we  are  standing  on  the  advanced 
line  of  a  political  campaign  which  in  its  results  will  be  of 
more  importance  than  any  political  event  that  will  occur 
during  the  nineteenth  century.  I  regret  that  my  friend 
Herndon  is  the  only  man  among  you  who  coincides  with  my 
views  and  purposes  in  the  propriety  of  making  such  a  speech 
to  the  public  as  1  have  indicated  to  you;  but  I  have  deter- 
mined in  my  own  mind  to  make  that  speech,  and  in  arriv- 
ing at  this  determination  I  cheerfully  admit  to  you  that  I 
am  moved  to  this  purpose  by  the  noble  sentiments  expressed 
in  those  beautiful  lines  of  William  Cullen  Bryant  in  his 
poem  on  "  The  Battlefield,"  where  he  says : 

"  A  friendless  warfare !    lingering  long 
Through  wear}'  day  and  weary  year; 
A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flanlc  and  rear. 

"  Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot ; 
The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof. 

The  sage  may  frown,  —  yet  faint  thou  not. 

*  By  permission  of  Mr.  William  Jayne. 


PROSE  SELECTIONS  129 

**  Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn ; 
For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

"  Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again,  — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain. 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

"  Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust 

When  they  who  helped  tliee  flee  in  fear, 
Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here ! 

"  Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield. 
Another  hand  thy  standard  wave, 
Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave.'* 

I  am  aware  that  many  of  our  friends,  and  all  of  our  politi- 
cal enemies,  will  say,  like  Scipio,  I  am  "  carrying  the  war 
into  Africa  " ;  but  that  is  an  incident  of  politics  which  none 
of  us  can  help,  but  it  is  an  incident  which  in  the  long  run  will 
be  forgotten  and  ignored. 

We  all  believe  that  every  human  being,  whatever  may  be 
his  color,  is  bom  free,  and  that  every  human  soul  has  an 
inalienable  right  to  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happi- 
ness. The  Apostle  Paul  said,  "  The  just  shall  live  by  faith." 
This  doctrine,  laid  down  by  Saint  Paul,  was  taken  up  by 
the  greatest  reformer  of  the  Christian  era,  Martin  Luther, 
and  was  adhered  to  with  a  vigor  and  fidelity  never  surpassed, 
until  it  won  a  supreme  victory,  the  benefits  and  advantages 
of  which  we  are  enjoying  to-day. 

I  will  lay  down  these  propositions  in  the  speech  I  propose 

to  make,  and  risk  the  chance  of  winning  a  seat  in  the  United 

States  Senate,  because  I  believe  that  the  propositions  are 

true  and  that  ultimately  we  shall  live  to  see,  as  Bryant  says, 

"  the  victory  of  endurance  born." 

[This  was  the  closing  incident  of  the  caucus  of  Lincoln's  friends  to 
consider  whether  or  not  he  should  make  his  proposed  speech.     It  was 

grobably  that  speech  which  enabled  Douglas  to  win  the  senatorship, 
ut  it  was  one  of  the  great  things  that  Lincoln  did  which  placed  him 
in  the  Valhalla  of  the  Immortals.     It  warrants  us  in  saying : 

"  Thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  fame's; 
One  of  the  few  immortal  names 
.  That  were  not  bom  to  die."] 

e 


130  SELECTED   READINGS 

SELECTIONS    FROM    THE    BIBLE 

GODLINESS    WITH    CONTENTMENT 
1  Timothy 

BUT  godliness  with  contentment  is  great  gain.  For  we 
brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  it  is  certain  we 
can  carry  nothing  out.  And  having  food  and  raiment,  let  us 
be  therewith  content.  But  they  that  will  be  rich  fall  into 
temptation  and  a  snare,  and  into  many  foolish  and  hurtful 
lusts,  which  drown  men  in  destruction  and  perdition.  For 
the  love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil :  which  while  some 
coveted  after,  they  have  erred  from  the  faith,  and  pierced 
themselves  through  with  many  sorrows.  But  thou,  0  man  of 
God,  flee  these  things ;  and  follow  after  righteousness,  godli- 
ness, faith,  love,  patience,  meekness.  Fight  the  good  fight  of 
faith,  lay  hold  on  eternal  life,  whereunto  thou  art  also  called, 
and  hast  professed  a  good  profession  before  many  witnesses. 

REMEMBEE   THY    CEEATOE 

ECCLESIASTES 

Eemember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while 
the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou 
shalt  say,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them ;  while  the  sun,  or  the 
light,  or  the  moon,  or  the  stars,  be  not  darkened,  nor  the 
clouds  return  after  the  rain:  ...  or  ever  the  silver  cord  be 
loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be  broken,  or  the  pitcher  be  broken 
at  the  fountain,  or  the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern.  Then 
shall  the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was:  and  the  spirit 
shall  return  unto  God  who  gave  it. 

THE    TONGUE 

St.  James 

For  in  many  things  we  offend  all.  If  any  man  offend  not 
in  word,  the  same  is  a  perfect  man,  and  able  also  to  bridle  the 
whole  body.  Behold,  we  put  bits  in  the  horses'  mouths,  that 
they  may  obey  us;    and  we  turn  about  their  whole  body. 


PROSE   SELECTIONS  131 

Behold  also  the  ships,  which  though  they  be  so  great,  and  are 
driven  of  fierce  winds,  yet  are  they  turned  about  with  a  very 
small  helm,  whithersoever  the  governor  listeth.  Even  so  the 
tongue  is  a  little  member,  and  boasteth  great  things.  Behold, 
how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire  kindleth  ! 

And  the  tongue  is  a  fire,  a  world  of  iniquity:  so  is  the 
tongue  among  our  members,  that  it  defileth  the  whole  body, 
and  setteth  on  fire  the  course  of  nature ;  and  it  is  set  on  fire 
of  hell.  For  every  kind  of  beasts,  and  of  birds,  and  of  ser- 
pents, and  of  things  in  the  sea,  is  tamed,  and  hath  been  tamed 
of  mankind :  but  the  tongue  can  no  man  tame ;  it  is  an 
unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly  poison. 

CHAEITY 

St.  Paul 

Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels 
and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass,  or  a 
tinkling  cymbal.  And  though  I  have  the  gift  of  prophecy, 
and  understand  all  mysteries,  and  all  knowledge;  and  though 
I  have  all  faith,  so  that  I  could  remove  mountains,  and  have 
not  charity,  I  am  nothing.  And  though  I  bestow  all  my  goods 
to  feed  the  poor,  and  though  I  give  my  body  to  be  burned, 
and  have  not  charity,  it  profiteth  me  nothing. 

Charity  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind;  charity  envieth  not; 
charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up,  doth  not  behave 
itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own,  is  not  easily  provoked, 
thinketh  no  evil ;  rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in 
the  truth;  beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all 
things,  endureth  all  things. 

Charity  never  failcth :  but  whether  there  be  prophecies, 
they  shall  fail ;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall  cease ; 
whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  away.  For  we 
know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part.  But  when  that  which 
is  perfect  is  come,  then  that  which  is  in  part  shall  be  done 
away.  When  T  was  a  child,  T  spake  as  a  child,  I  understood 
as  a  child,  I  thought  as  a  child :  but  when  I  became  a  man 
I  put  away  childish  things.  For  now  we  see  through  a  glass, 
darkly ;  but  then  face  to  face :  now  I  know  in  part ;  but 
then  shall  I  know  even  as  also  I  am  known.  And  now  abidetli 
faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three;  but  the  greatest  of  these  is 
charity. 


132  SELECTED   READINGS 

BE    NOT   DECEIVED 

St.  Paul 

Be  not  deceived;  .  .  .  for  whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that 
shall  he  also  reap.  For  he  that  soweth  to  his  flesh  shall  of  the 
flesh  reap  corruption;  but  he  that  soweth  to  the  Spirit  shall 
of  the  Spirit  reap  life  everlasting.  And  let  us  not  be  weary 
in  well  doing;  for  in  due  season  we  shall  reap,  if  we  faint 
not. 

THE    TWENTY-THIED    PSALM 
David 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd ;  I  shall  not  want. 

He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures : 

He  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 

He  restoreth  my  soul : 

He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of  righteousness  for  his  name's 
sake. 

Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  I  will  fear  no  evil:  for  thou  art  with  me; 

Thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort  me. 

Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  presence  of  mine 
enemies : 

Thou  anointest  my  head  with  oil :   my  cup  runneth  over. 

Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of 
my  life : 

And  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever. 

THE    BEATITUDES 
St.  Matthew 

Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit:  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn:  for  they  shall  be 
comforted.  Blessed  are  the  meek :  for  they  shall  inherit  the 
earth.  Blessed  are  they  which  do  hunger  and  thirst  after 
righteousness :  for  they  shall  be  filled.  Blessed  are  the  merci- 
ful :  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy.  Blessed  are  the  pure  in 
heart :  for  they  shall  see  God.  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers : 
for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God.  Blessed  are  they 
which  are  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake:    for  theirs  is 


PROSE  SELECTIONS  133 

the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Blessed  are  ye,  when  men  shall 
revile  you,  and  persecute  you,  and  shall  say  all  manner  of 
evil  against  you  falsely,  for  my  sake.  Eejoice,  and  be  ex- 
ceeding glad :  for  great  is  your  reward  in  heaven :  for  so  per- 
secuted they  the  prophets  which  were  before  you. 


II 

MONOLOGUES 


II  — MONOLOGUES 


HER    HUSBAND'S    DINNER   PARTY* 

(Mrs.  John  Trenton,  the  typical  commuter,  laden  vnth 
bundles,  approaches  the  train-starter  in  the  station.  Mrs. 
Trenton  speaks.) 

WHx\T  track  is  the  5  :20  on,  guard?  The  farther  one  — 
the  farthest  track?  Why,  when  did  they  change  it? 
It  always  used  to  go  out  right  here!  Only  one  minute  to 
make  it  in?  Well,  my  land !  why  did  n't  you  say  so? 
(She  pushes  a  mere  man  aside  and  makes  a  dash  for  her 
train.) 
Look  out,  man,  I  want  to  make  that  5:20!  What?  I 
dropped  a  letter?  Why,  no  I  didn't,  did  I?  Well,  I  can't 
wait  to  get  it  —  I  've  got  to  get  that  train  ! 

(She  arrives  at  the  gate  to  find  it  closed.) 
Is  that  the  5  :20  just  pulling  out?    Well,  stop  it  —  stop  it, 
I  've  got  to  get  on  it ! 

(She  tries  to  get  through  the  gate.) 
Take  your  hands  off  me,  sir !  Break  my  neck  ?  Well,  it 's 
my  own  neck,  is  n't  it  ?  Look  at  that  train !  And  I  have  a 
dinner-party  at  seven  o'clock,  for  my  husband's  friends !  A 
what?  A  5 :22  ?  Well,  why  did  n't  you  say  so?  Where  does 
it  go  out  ?    Way  over  there  ? 

(Slie  rushes  hack  to  the  train-starter.) 
Guard,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  there  was  a  train  at  5:22? 
I  did  n't  ask  you?    I  told  you  I  had  to  get  the  5 :20  and  you 
saw  me  miss  it,  so  —  what  —  going  ?    Wait  —  wait  a  minute 
—  conductor  —  wait ! 

(She  pursues  the  train  down  the  track  and  is  lugged  aboard 
by  the  conductor,  bag  and  baggage.     She  seats  herself 
breathlessly  beside  a  woman,  placing   the   bundles  in 
every  available  spot.) 
I  hope  I  'm  not  crowding  you  with  these  bundles  ?    That 's 
the  trouble  with  suburban  life  —  every  man  his  own  delivery 
wagon !    Yes,  I  'm  winded !     I  had  to  run  for  the  train,  be- 
cause my  husband  is  having  a  stag  dinner  to-night,  and  there 
are  a  tliousand  things  for  me  to  see  about. 

*  Written  especially  for  this  collection. 


138  SELECTED   READINGS 

I  do  hope  the  second  girl  will  remember  the  right  number 
of  forks,  and  the  right  temperature  for  the  wine.  The  last 
dinner  I  gave  I  had  a  butler  in  for  the  occasion.  I  never 
supposed  it  was  necessary  to  give  a  real  butler  instructions  in 
serving,  but  would  you  believe  it,  when  he  got  to  Senator 
Black,  the  guest  of  honor,  he  tipped  the  champagne  bottle 
over  the  Senator's  glass  and  said  in  a  loud  whisper,  "  Say 
when !  "  I  nearly  died  of  mortification,  but  my  husband  just 
roared  right  out  and  everybody  else  joined  in,  but  I  made  up 
my  mind  no  more  extra-guaranteed  butlers  for  me,  so  we  just 
have  a  plain  second  girl  and  waitress  now,  and  she  does  get 
so  flustered. 

Why,  the  other  day  —  Tuesday  —  no,  it  was  Wednesday  — 
Wednesday  of  last  week,  I  had  the  ladies  of  my  Bridge  Club 
in  to  lunch,  and  Maggie  got  so  flustered  that  she  slipped  on 
the  newly  polished  floor  and  spilled  a  whole  plate  of  rice  soup 
over  one  of  the  ladies'  hair !  Yes,  it  was  awful,  rice  is  so  mean 
to  get  out  of  your  hair.  Of  course,  she  took  off  all  her  top 
hair  and  took  it  home  in  a  paper,  but  even  then  some  of  the 
rice  was  glued  right  to  her  scalp ! 

(The  conductor  interrupts  her  to  get  her  ticTcet.) 

To  Winnetka  ?  Why,  of  course  it  is  to  Winnetka,  that 's 
where  I  'm  going.  This  is  an  express  to  Lake  Forest  — 
does  n't  stop  ?  Well,  but  —  it 's  got  to  stop,  I  've  got  to  get 
off ;  I  don't  care  if  it  is  a  special,  I  've  got  a  dinner  at  seven 
o'clock  for  my  husband's  friends,  and  I  've  got  to  get  to 
AVinnetka  by  6 :20  !  You  can't  ?  Why  can't  you  ?  Can't  you 
get  the  engineer  to  do  it  as  a  special  favor?  Tell  him  I  am 
Mrs.  John  Trenton,  of  Winnetka,  and  my  husband  will  send 
him  a  box  of  cigars  to-morrow,  if  he  will ! 

But  I  can't  make  it  from  Lake  Forest  in  time.  There  are 
so  few  trains  going  south  at  this  time  in  the  evening,  and  my 
dinner  is  at  seven !  I  don't  suppose  you  can  help  it,  but 
that 's  no  comfort  to  me ! 

(She  turns  to  her  neighbor.) 

What  would  you  do,  if  you  were  me?  You'd  stay  right 
on,  would  you  ?  Well,  if  they  won't  stop,  I  suppose  I  '11  have 
to.  I  never  could  drop  off,  with  all  these  bundles,  could  I? 
I  just  had  to  bring  out  some  things  for  the  dinner  — 
Roquefort  cheese  —  and  —  you  did — you  smelled  it?  Well, 
my  husband  is  so  particular  about  the  cheese  and  our  grocer 
can't  suit  him,  so  I  had  to  get  it  in  town.  He's  so  fond  of 
it  —  no,  not  the  grocer  —  my  husband.    My  father  was,  too» 


MONOLOGUES  139 

I  remember  once  my  father  brought  out  some  especially  fine 
Eoquefort  for  a  dinner-party,  and  we  had  an  old  negro  ser- 
vant who  was  waiting  on  the  table.  When  the  coffee  was 
brought  in,  my  father  asked  liim  where  the  cheese  was,  and 
old  Eobert  said :  "  Fo'  de  land's  sake,  yo'  did  n't  spec'  me  to 
put  dat  cheese  on  de  table  ?  Why  —  I  f rowed  it  in  de  ash 
heap  —  dat  cheese  was  no  good,  sah,  it  was  a-workin' !  " 

Dear  me,  it  is  a  long  ride  out  to  Lake  Forest,  is  n't  it  ?  I 
always  carry  a  book  to  read,  it  is  so  improving  I  think,  but 
1  forgot  it  to-day.  I  never  speak  to  any  one  on  the  trains, 
but,  of  course,  you  were  so  nice  about  my  bundles  and  advis- 
ing me,  and  all.  "  The  Shuttle  "  ?  No,  I  have  n't.  Is  tliat 
so  ?  I  must  get  it.  I  've  been  reading  "  Alice  for  Short "  for 
ten  or  eleven  months,  and  I  'm  nearly  half  through,  so  I  must 
look  up  something  new. 

(Conductor  again  interrupts.) 

Oh,  the  next  is  Lake  Forest?  Two  minutes  to  get  on  the 
south-bound  ?  Dear  me,  that  is  a  close  call.  I  'm  glad  to 
have  met  you  —  Mrs.  —  a  —  a  —  I  hope  1  '11  see  you  again. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes,  conductor,  I  'm  coming. 
(Conductor  transfers  her,  tag  and  baggage,  to  the  south- 
hound,  and  as  it  pulls  out,  Mrs.  Trenton  settles  herself 
with  a  sigh.) 

I  '11  have  to  pay  my  fare,  conductor.  When  do  we  get  to 
Winnetka?  An  express!  First  stop  Chicago?  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  —  why  did  n't  that  other  conductor  find  out  — 
you  've  got  to  let  me  oft  at  Winnetka,  or  I  '11  jump  and  sue 
the  Company  for  damages  ! 

Don't  get  excited  ?  Well,  would  n't  you  get  excited  if  the 
stai'ter  put  you  on  an  express  to  Lake  Forest,  when  my  ticket 
read  to  Winnetka  and  now  that  other  man  —  he  had  a  mean 
eye  —  I  never  trust  a  man  with  a  green  eye  —  he  has  put  me 
on  an  express  back  to  Chicago !  But  I  tell  you  I  have  a 
dinner  at  seven  o'clock  for  my  husband's  friends  —  What, 
7:15  now? 

(She  goes  into  hysterics,  during  which  conductor  tries  to 
soothe  her.  Innocent  bystander  asks  ivhat  is  the  trouble, 
and  conductor  mutters,  "  lAinatic,  I  guess.") 

Lunatic?    Did  you  say  lunatic?    I  call  upon  all  the  pas- 
sengers in  this  car  to  give  me  their  names  and  addresses  as 
witnesses  of  how  this  man  has  insulted  me ! 
(To  anxious  passenger.) 

No,  I  'm  not  crazy.    I  've  got  to  get  off  at  Winnetka  —  I 


/40  SELECTED   READINGS 

belong  there,  that 's  my  home,  and  I  've  got  a  dinner  party 
at  —  You  say  you  slow  up  at  Glencoe  ?  Well,  I  ^11  risk  it, 
and  take  the  electric  down.  I  don't  know  —  you  '11  just  have 
to  throw  them  off  after  me  —  all  but  the  cheese  —  you  hold 
on  to  that  until  I  light,  and  I  '11  catch  it.  Yes,  you  let  me 
know  in  time  and  I  '11  have  everything  ready  to  jump. 
(Passenger  continues  to  ask  questions.) 
Of  course,  I  did  n't  know  it  was  an  express  to  Lake  Forest 
—  how  should  I  ?  I  did  n't  tell  the  starter  where  I  was  going, 
but  he  ought  to  Imow  me  by  this  time,  all  the  hundreds  of 
times  I  go  in  and  out  on  these  trains. 

(Conductor  summons  her  to  the  fatal  leap.) 
All  right,  conductor,  now  take  the  bundles,  and  throw 
them  in  this  order  —  this  one  first,  then  this  —  yes,  all  right, 
I  'm  coming. 

(Train  sloivs  doivn,  and  Mrs.  Trenton  drops  off  in  a  sJiower 
of  bundles,  stumbling  forward  on  all  fours,  dislocating 
her  hat  and  splitting  her  gloves.    The  cheese  hits  her  in 
the  left  ear.) 
That  is  the  last  straw !    I  shall  add  that  in  my  suit  —  that 
the  conductor  hit  me  in  the  ear  with  a  cheese ! 
(She  hears  electric  car  tooting,  and  scrambles  to  her  feet, 
collects  ivhat  bundles  she  can,  and  gets  aboard  of  elec- 
tric, which  slows  down,  but  does  not  stop.     Conductor 
comes  in  from,  front  platform,  stares  at  apparition,  and 
explains  that  this  is  an  empty  running  to  Evanston  for 
repairs.) 
I  c —  c —  can't  bear  any  more !    I  have  to  g —  g —  get  off 
at  Winnetka  —  can't  you  let  me  off  there  ?    I  have  a  dinner- 
party —  please  —  please  — 

(Sobs  interrupt  her  tale,  and  when  the  conductor  promises  to 
let  her  off  at  Winnetka,  she  sobs  on  quietly,  while  he 
tells  the  gripman  about  the  "  funny  old  drunk  "  inside. 
At  Winnetka  she  descends,  and  runs  home.     On  enter- 
ing,  she   shouts   for   her   husband.     A    maid   appears, 
alarmed  at  the  sight  that  greets  her  eye.) 
Where  is  Mr.  Trenton  ?  Is  the  dinner  over  ?  Are  the  guests 
all  here?     W-h-a-t?     He  called  up  at  five  o'clock  to  say  he 
would  have  the  party  in  town? 

(With  an  agonized  groan,  Mrs.  John  Trenton  collapsed  into 
a  comatose  condition.) 

Marjorie  Benton  Cooke. 


MONOLOGUES  141 


HER    FIRST    CALL    ON    THE    BUTCHER* 

[She  enters,  shakes  skirt  free  of  sawdust,  and  ivrinkles  nose 
in  disgust.  She  moves  uncertainly,  finally  points  at  one 
man.^ 

'XT'OU,  if  you  please.  Good-moming.  I  want  to  look  at 
X  something  for  dinner.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I 
want  —  just  show  me  what  5'ou  have.  ...  Of  course  I  cant 
tell  what  I  want  until  I  see  what  you  have,  and  even  then  it 's 
very  hard.  .  .  .  Yes,  just  us  two.  .  .  .  Well,  the  platter  we 
use  ordinarily  for  dinner  —  I  don't  use  the  best  set  for  every 
day,  but  this  one  is  really  very  pretty,  white  with  little  pink 
roses  —  Well,  it 's  about  so  long  and  so  wide,  and  I  would 
like  something  to  fill  it  nicely.  ...  I  can't  think  of  one 
thing.  What  are  these?  .  .  .  Chops?  Well,  I  never  saw 
chops  growing  in  bunches  before.  ...  I  don't  care  —  when 
1  was  at  home  we  often  had  chops,  but  they  were  n't  like 
that,  but  sort  of  one  and  one,  with  little  bits  of  parsley  around 
them.  .  .  .  You  cut  them  up  ?  Oh  —  oh  —  oh  —  I  sup- 
pose difi^erent  butchers  have  different  ways.  .  .  . 

I  don't  think  I  care  for  that  kind  of  chops,  anyway  —  I 
mean  those  with  the  little  tails.  I  like  the  ones  with  the  long, 
thin  bones.  .  .  .  French  chops  ?  Oh,  no,  they  were  n't  im- 
ported —  oh,  no,  because  the  cook  used  to  go  out  any  time  and 
get  them.  .  .  .  Oh  —  oh  —  oh  —  you  do  ?  .  .  .  They  are  ? 
...  I  see.  ...  I  '11  take  some.  .  .  .  How  many  ?  —  oh  —  I 
er  —  Why,  about  as  many  as  you  usually  sell.  .  .  .  Well, 
let  me  see  —  Mr.  Dodd  generally  eats  about  a  dozen  oysters 
at  a  time  —  I  don't  mean  all  at  once,  you  know  —  so  for 
both  of  us  I  think  about  two  dozen.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can  send 
for  more  if  that  is  n't  enough. 

You  are  quite  sure  you  have  the  best  —  best  —  description 
of  chops?  .  .  .  Well,  you  see,  our  cook,  Lillian  —  such  an 
odd  name  for  an  Irish  cook  —  I  mean  our  cook  at  home  be- 
fore I  was  married  —  she  Avanted  me  to  employ  the  same 
butcher  we  had  then,  but  as  I  told  mamma  then,  I  thought  it 
was  more  a  matter  of  sentiment  with  Lillian  than  meat.  She 
was  the  most  disobliging  girl  except  when  it  came  to  buying 
chops,  and  she  was  always  only  too  ready  to  run  out  after 
them.  One  afternoon  I  was  just  going  up  tlie  steps  —  I  liad 
been  to  tea,  I  think  —  anyway,  I  know  I  'd  had  an  awfully 

*  Stage  and  platfoTm  riohls  reserved  by  the  author. 


142  SELECTED   READINGS 

stupid  time.  Well,  there  was  Lillian  at  the  area  gate  talking 
to  a  man  who  had  "  chops  "  written  all  over  him.  So  when 
Lillian  said  —  [TurnsJ]  I  'm  in  great  haste  myself,  madam. 
\To  hutcher.l  You  will  kindly  finish  waiting  on  me  before 
3^ou  attend  to  any  one  else.  Where  did  I  leave  off  ?  Oh,  yes. 
He  was  a  little,  thick-set  man  with  black,  curly  hair  and  mus- 
tache. Do  you  know  him?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  thought  probably  all 
butchers  knew  one  another.  .  .  . 

I  would  like  to  look  at  some  chickens,  please.  .  .  .  Why, 
it  has  n't  any  feathers !  ...  It  did  ?  .  .  .  You  have  ?  .  .  . 
It  was  ?  .  .  .  Oh  —  oh  —  oh.  I  don't  like  the  color  —  it 
seems  very  yellow.  .  .  .  Because  it 's  fat  ?  Well,  I  don't  want 
a  fat  chicken  —  neither  Mr.  Dodd  nor  myself  eat  a  bit  of  fat. 
.  .  .  Oh  —  oh  —  oh.  I  can't  help  it  —  I  don't  like  the  color 
of  that  chicken  —  you  '11  pardon  my  saying  so,  but  it  does 
look  very  bilious.  Why,  what  are  you  breaking  its  bones  for  ? 
I  would  n't  take  it  now  under  any  circumstances.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps, but  Mr.  Dodd  would  n't  like  me  to  buy  a  damaged 
chicken.  There,  I  like  those  chickens  hanging  up.  .  .  .  No, 
no,  not  that  one  —  farther  along  —  no  —  yes,  yes,  that 's  it 

—  the  blue-looking  one  with  the  large  face.  ...  I  don't  care, 
I  like  its  looks  much  better  than  the  other  one.  Now,  let  me 
see  —  there  was  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  that 
chicken  —  wait  a  minute  —  I  '11  have  it  directly  —  I  've  been 
taking  a  course  of  memory  lessons.  M  —  m  —  m  —  some- 
thing about  a  boat  —  a  tiller,  a  centre-board,  a  sheet,  a  sail,  a 
mainsail  —  that 's  almost  it  —  a  ji  —  Ji  —  a  jib  —  that 's  it 

—  giblets !    Be  sure  to  send  the  giblets. 

Where 's  my  list  ?  I  thought  I  put  it  in  my  bag,  but  — 
No,  I  can't  find  it.  Is  n't  that  exasperating !  I  remember 
making  it  out,  and  then  I  laid  a  little  sample  of  white  silk 
with  a  black  figure  in  it  on  the  desk  —  yes,  I  remember  per- 
fectly. Oh,  yes,  and  then  the  sample  or  the  list  —  you  see, 
the  sample  with  the  tliin,  black  figure  really  looked  like  the 
list.  Well,  one  or  the  other  must  have  fallen  on  the  floor, 
for  I  remember,  too,  my  little  dog  chewing  something  as  I 
came  out  —  yes,  that  must  have  been  it.  .  .  .  It  really 
does  n't  matter  specially. 

Mr.  Dodd  says  always  have  plenty  of  beef,  so  you  might 
send  a  few  steaks.  .  .  .  What?    Porter-house  or  sirloin?    I 

—  er  —  I  don't  think  we  care  for  any  of  those  fancy  ones  — 
just  some  plain  steaks  will  do. 

Now   please   send  the  things   very   early   this   morning, 


MONOLOGUES  143 

because  we  dine  at  seven,  and  Mr.  Dodd  does  n't  like  to  wait. 
.  .  .  Yes,  that 's  all,  I  think  —  that 's  all  —  Why,  the  idea — 
it 's  Friday,  and  our  girl  does  n't  eat  a  bit  of  meat  on  Friday 
—  you  Avill  have  to  take  all  of  those  things  back.  Just  send 
around  a  few  nice  fishes,  and  be  sure  and  send  their  giblets ! 
Good-morning. 

May  Isabel  Fisk. 


BUYING    HER    HUSBAND    A    CHRISTMAS 

PRESENT  * 

WHY  howdy.  Mis'  Blakes  —  Howdy,  Mis'  Phemie  — 
Howdy,  all.  I  see  yo'  sto'e  is  fillin'  up  early.  Great 
minds  run  in  the  same  channel,  partic'larly  on  Christmas 
Eve. 

]\Iy  ole  man  started  off  this  momin'  befo'  day  an'  soon  ez 
he  got  ou'  o'  sight  I  struck  out  fo'  Washington,  an'  here  I 
am.  He  thinks  I  'm  home  seedin'  raisins.  He  was  out  by 
starlight  this  mornin'  with  the  l)ig  wagon,  an'  of  co'se  I  know 
what  that  means.  'E  's  gone  fo'  my  Christmus  gif  an'  1  'm 
put  to  it  to  know  what  tremenjus  thing  he 's  layin'  out  to 
fetch  me  —  thet  takes  a  cotton  wagon  to  haul  it.  Of  co'se 
I  imagine  even'thing,  from  a  guyaskutus  down.  I  always  did 
like  to  get  things  too  big  fo'  my  stockin'.  What  yo'  say.  Mis' 
Blakes?  Do  I  hang  up  my  stockin'  ?  Well  I  reckon  I  had  n't 
quit  when  I  got  married,  an'  I  think  that 's  a  poor  time  to 
stop,  don't  you  ? 

What  do  you  tliink  would  be  the  nicest  to  give  him,  Mr. 
Lawson  —  this  silver  card-basket,  or  that  Cupid  vase,  or  — 

Ye  need  n't  to  wink.  I  seen  you.  Mis'  Blakes.  Ef  I  was 
to  pick  out  a  half-dozen  socks  like  them  you're  buyin'  fer 
Mr.  Blakes,  how  much  fun  do  you  suppose  we  'd  have  out  of 
it?  Not  much.  I'd  jest  ez  lief  'twas  n't  Christmus,  —  an' 
so  would  he  —  though  they  do  say  his  first  wife  give  him  a 
l)olt  of  domestic  once-t  for  Christmus,  an'  made  it  up  into 
night  shirts  an'  things  fer  him  durin'  the  year.  Think  of 
it !  No,  I  'm  goin'  to  git  him  something  that 's  got  some 
git-up  to  it,  an'  —  an'  it  '11  be  either  —  that  —  Cupid  vase  — 
or  lordy  —  ]\Ir.  Lawson,  don't  fetch  out  that  swingin'  ice 
pitcher.  I  glimpsed  it  quick  as  I  come  in  the  door,  an',  says 
I,  *  Git  thee  behind  me,  Satin,'  an'  turned  my  back  on  it 

*  From  "  Moriah'a  Mourning."    CopjjriglU,  1898,  by  Harper  <fc  Brothers. 


144  SELECTED   READINGS 

immejiate.  But  of  co'se  I  ca'cultated  to  git  yon  to  fetcli  it 
out  jes'  for  me  to  look  at,  after  I  'd  selected  his  present. 

Ain't  it  a  beauty  ?  Seems  to  me  they  could  n't  be  a  more 
suitable  present  for  a  man  —  ef  he  did  n't  hate  'em  so.  No, 
Mis'  Blakes,  it  ain't  only  that  he  don't  never  drink  ice  water. 
I  would  n't  mind  a  little  thing  like  that.  How  much  is  them 
wilier  rockers,  Mr.  Lawson?  I  declare  that  one  favors  my 
old  man  ez  it  sets  there,  even  without  him  in  it.  Nine  dol- 
lars? That's  a  good  deal  for  a  pants-tearin'  chair,  seems 
to  me  which  them  wilier  rockers  is,  every  last  one  of  'em, 
an'  I  'm  a  mighty  poor  hand  to  darn.  Jest  let  me  lay  my 
stiches  in  colors,  in  the  shape  of  a  flower,  an'  I  can  dam  ez 
well  as  the  next  one,  but  I  despise  to  fill  up  holes  jest  to  be  a 
fillin'.  Yes,  ez  as  you  say,  them  silver-mounted  brierwood 
pipes  is  mighty  pretty,  but  he  smokes  so  much  ez  it  is,  I  don't 
know  ez  I  want  to  encourage  him.  Besides,  it  seems  a  waste 
o'  money  to  buy  a  Christmus  gif  thet  a  person  has  to  lay 
aside  when  company  comes  in,  an'  a  silver-mounted  pipe 
ain't  no  politer  to  smoke  in  the  presence  of  ladies  than  a 
corncob  is.    An'  ez  for  when  we  're  by  ourselves  —  shucks  ! 

Ef  you  don't  mind,  Mr.  Lawson,  I  '11  stroll  around  through 
the  sto'e  an'  see  what  you  've  got  while  you  wait  on  some  o' 
them  thet  Imow  their  own  minds.  I  know  mine  well  enough. 
What  I  want  is  that  swingin'  ice  pitcher,  an'  my  judgment 
tells  me  thet  they  ain't  a  more  suitable  present  in  yo'  sto'e 
for  a  man.  That 's  a  mighty  fine  saddle  blanket,  indeed  it  is. 
He  was  talkin'  about  a  saddle  blanket  the  other  day.  But 
that 's  a  thing  a  person  could  pick  up  almost  any  day,  a  sad- 
dle blanket  is.  An'  ice  pitcher  now  —  Say,  Mr.  Lawson, 
lemme  look  at  that  tiltin'  pitcher  again,  please,  sir.  I  jest 
want  to  see  if  the  spout  is  gold  lined.  Yes,  so  it  is  —  an' 
little  holes  dovni  in  the  throat  of  it.  It  cert'n'y  is  well  made, 
it  cert'n'y  is.  I  s'pose  them  holes  is  to  strain  out  grasshop- 
pers or  anything  that  might  fall  into  it.  .  .  .  He 's  got  a 
mighty  keerless  way  o'  drinkin'  out  o'  open  dippers.  No 
tellin'  what  he  '11  scoop  up  some  day.  They  'd  be  great  safety 
for  him  in  a^  pitcher  like  this  —  ef  I  could  only  make  him  see 
it.  It  would  seem  a  sort  o'  awkward  thing  to  pack  out  to  the 
well  every  single  time,  an'  he  won't  drink  no  water  but  what 
he  draws  fresh.  An'  I  s'pose  it  would  look  sort  o'  silly  to  put 
it  in  here  jest  to  drink  it  out  again. 

Sir?  Oh,  yes,  I  saw  them  saddle  bags  hangin'  up  back 
there,  an'  they  are  fine,  mightj^  fine,  ez  you  say,  an'  his  are 


MONOLOGUES  145 

pnrty  near  wore  out,  but  lordy,  I  don't  want  to  buy  a  Christ- 
mus  gif  thet  's  hung  up  in  the  harness  room  haf  the  time. 
What 's  that  you  say  ?  Won't  you  all  ever  git  done  a  runnin' 
me  about  that  side  saddle  ?  I  got  it  for  his  pleasure  if  it  was 
for  my  use ;  an'  come  to  think  about  it,  I  'd  be  jest  reversin' 
the  thing  on  the  pitcher.  It  would  be  fer  his  use  an'  my 
pleasure.  I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  to  buy  it  fer  Mm.  Both 
goblets  go  with  it,  you  say,  an'  the  slop  bowl  ?  It  cerf  n'y  is 
handsome  —  it  cerfn'y  is.  An'  it 's  expensive  —  nobody 
could  accuse  me  o'  stintin'  him.  Wonder  why  they  did  n't 
put  some  polar  bears  on  the  goblets,  too.  They  'd  'a'  had  to 
be  purty  small  bears,  but  they  could  'a'  been  cubs  easy. 

I  don't  reelly  believe,  Mr.  Lawson,  indeed  I  don't,  thet  I 
could  find  a  more  suitable  present  for  him  ef  I  took  a  month, 
an'  I  don't  keer  what  he 's  a-pickin'  out  for  me  this  minute, 
it  can't  be  no  handsomer  'n  this.  Th'  ain't  no  use  —  I  '11  haf 
to  have  it  for  'im.  Just  charge  it,  please ;  an'  now  I  want  it 
marked.  I  '11  pay  cash  for  the  markin',  out  of  my  egg  money- 
An'  I  want  his  full  name.  Have  it  stamped  on  the  iceberg 
right  beside  the  bear.  "  Ephraim  N.  Trimble."  No,  you 
need  n't  spell  out  the  middle  name.  I  should  say  not.  Ef 
you  knew  what  it  was  you  would  n't  ask  me.  Why,  it 's 
Nebuchadnezzar.  It  'd  use  up  the  whole  iceberg.  No,  jest 
write  it,  "  Ephraim  N.  Trimble,  from  his  wife  Kitiy."  Be 
sure  to  put  in  the  "  Kitty,"  so  in  after  years  it  '11  show  which 
wife  give  it  to  him.  Of  co'se,  them  thet  knew  us  both  would 
know  which  one.  Mis'  Mary  Jane  would  n't  never  have  ap- 
proved of  it  in  the  world.  Why  she  used  to  rip  up  her  old 
crocheted  tidies  an'  things,  an'  use  'em  over  in  bastin'  threads, 
so  they  tell  me.  She  little  dremp'  Avho  she  was  a  savin'  for, 
poor  thing.  She  was  buyin'  this  pitcher  then,  but  she  did  n't 
know  it.  Go  on  with  the  inscription,  Mr.  Lawson.  What 
have  vou  o^ot?  "  From  his  wife  Kittv  "  —  what 's  the  matter 
with  "  affectionate  wife  "  ?  You  say  "  affectionate  "  is  a  purty 
expensive  word?  But  "  lovin' " '11  do  jest  ez  well  .in'  comes 
cheaper,  you  say.  An'  plain  "wife"  comes  cheapest  of  all? 
An'  I  don't  know  but  what  it's  more  suitable,  anyhow  — 
at  his  age.  Of  co'se  you  must  put  in  the  date,  an'  make  the 
"  Kitty  "  nice  an'  fancy,  please.  Lordy,  well  the  deed  's  done, 
an'  I  reckon  he'll  threaten  to  divorce  me  when  he  sees  it  — 
till  he  reads  the  inscription.  Bettor  put  in  the  "  lovin',"  I 
reckon,  an'  put  it  in  in  capitals  —  they  don't  cost  no  more,  do 
they?    Well,  good-bve,  Mr.  Lawson.    I  reckon  you'll  be  glad 

10 


146  SELECTED   READINGS 

to  see  me  go.  I  've  outstayed  every  last  one  thet  was  "here 
when  I  come.  Well,  good-bye !  Have  it  marked  immejiate, 
please,  an'  I  '11  call  back  in  an  hour.    Good-bye ! 

KuTH  McEneey  Stuaet. 
Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


ABBIE'S    ACCOUNTS* 

THEEE  is  one  comfort  in  being  a  married  woman.  Of 
course  there  is  more  than  one,  —  a  great  many,  —  but 
one  in  particular,  I  mean,  and  that  is  —  one  has  a  right  to 
some  of  the  luxuries  of  married  life.  Now  a  husband  is  n't 
like  an  older  sister.  Of  all  the  creatures  that  tyrannize  over 
their  kind  an  older  sister  is  the  worst.    A  husband  is  —  well 

—  rather  "  bossy."  Alfred  says  I  should  keep  accounts,  now 
tbat  I  am  married.  I  wonder  where  that  accoimt  book  is. 
1  am  sure  I  put  it  under  this  pile  of  invitations  to  those  five 
o'clock  nuisances.  The  impudence  of  that  Hanson  woman 
with  her  teas.  She  seems  to  regard  tea  as  a  sort  of  legal  ten- 
der. "VATiere  is  that  book?  Maybe  it  is  in  that  blue  serge; 
or  is  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gray  cashmere  ?  Let  me  see,  — 
that's  up  in  the  closet.  [Going  to  the  door,  and  coming 
hack.']  No,  it  is  n't.  I  tore  it  out.  It  must  be  in  one  of 
those  drawers  in  the  desk.  Oh !  here  it  is.  How  I  love  the 
smell  of  Eussian  leather.  I  like  red  leather,  it 's  so  business- 
like. [Goes  to  the  desTc.]  Now,  where 's  the  ink?  [Turns 
bottle  upside  down.]  It 's  empty.  Well,  never  mind,  here  's 
a  pencil  —  perhaps  it  would  be  better,  if  I  should  make  a 
mistake. 

I  wonder  if  I  remember  my  multiplication  table.  Let  me 
see !  7  X  '^  used  to  be  a  horror,  7  X  7  are  49 ;  8X7  are 
50  —  no,  that's  not  right,  52  I  guess.  Let  me  see  (counts 
on  fingers)  49  —  50  —  51  —  52  —  53  —  Oh,  how  glad  I  am 
I  'm  married !    They  did  n't  let  us  count  on  our  fingers  there 

—  49  — 50  — 51  — 52  — 53  — 54  — 55  — 56  — 57,  yes,  7 
X  9  are  57. 

Now,  what  do  I  put  down  first.  Alfred  is  either  my  Dr.  or 
my  Cr,  Yesterday  morning  he  gave  me  thirty-five  dollars, 
all  in  fives,  —  he  gave  them  to  me,  you  see,  so  he  's  my  D-r 

—  C-r  —  Cr.,  I  guess,  and  I'm  his  Dr.  [Writes,  holds  up 
booTc,  and  looks  at  it.]     Now,  does  n't  that  look  real  sweet,  — 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  Century  Co. 


MONOLOGUES  147 

Alfred  Appleby  on  one  page  and  Abbie  Appleby,  Dr.,  on  the 
other?     [Aidses  them  both.] 

Xow  comes  what  I  spent  it  for.  I  know  they  use  only  two 
pages  —  I  heard  papa  talk  about  a  trial  balance,  and  you 
can't  balance  three  things  unless  you  "re  a  juggler.  I  tbinlc 
I  'II  tear  these  two  pages  out.  No,  I  won't.  It 's  only  in 
pencil,  I  '11  rub  it  out.  [Rubs  out.]  I  don't  wonder  papa 
gets  tired  keeping  his  accounts.  It  must  be  awful  to  be  a 
bookkeeper  and  get  all  covered  with  red  ink. 

\_Sees  package.]  Oh !  I  forgot  all  about  that  silk  I  got 
for  the  curtains.  I  must  look  at  it  before  I  look  at  my  ac- 
counts. I  'm  tired  of  figuring,  anyway.  How  cheap  these 
silks  are  nowadays !  This  was  only  45  a  yard  and  there 's 
enough  in  it  to  make  a  dress.  I  wonder  how  I  would  look 
in  it.  [Throws  it  around  her.]  There,  I  look  like  a  duchess 
at  least.  I  wonder  what  real  duchesses  look  like,  anyway ! 
Oh !  how  I  wish  I  could  travel  and  see  things.  It  would  be 
splendid  to  be  rich,  real  rich,  so  that  you  don't  care  how 
much  money  you  spend,  and  you  don't  have  to  keep  accounts. 
Oh !  that  reminds  me,  I  must  finish  my  account  book.  I 
promised  Alfred  I  would  have  it  ready  for  him.  What  a 
comfort  it  is  that  your  husband  is  n't  your  father !  and  how 
absurd  it  would  be  to  be  your  own  great-grandchild,  or  any- 
thing like  that. 

Why,  I  thought  I  had  done  a  lot.  Oh !  I  remember,  I 
rubbed  it  out.  Yes,  it  was  that  Cr.  and  Dr.  business  that 
stopped  me.  After  all,  what  difference  does  it  make  ?  Alfred 
does  n't  care. 

Abbie  Appleby,  Dr.  —  Alfred  Appleby,  Cr.  Then  I  put 
down  what  he  gave  me.  He  gave  me  —  let  me  see  —  $35.00. 
It  was  before  I  bought  that  lace  for  trimming,  and  it  cost 
$2.99  a  yard,  and  I  bought  2%  yards.  My !  that 's  a  puzzle  ! 
How  did  we  do  it  at  school  ?  What  a  lot  of  money  papa  spent 
on  my  school  bills,  and  how  much  good  it  has  done  me !  Let 
me  see.  If  2%  yards  of  lace  cost  $2.99  a  yard,  and  Alfred 
gave  Abbie  thirty-five  dollars  to  start  with,  how  much  did 
Abbie  have  to  start  with?  Humph!  that's  easy  enough  — 
thirty-five  dollars  of  course.  After  all,  education  is  worth 
something.  I  suppose  that 's  what  we  call  logic.  I  think 
guessing  is  easier.  Well,  the  answer  is  $35.00,  and  it  goes 
down  under  Cr.  That  Alfred  is  my  Cr.  for  $35.00  is  plain. 
Next  comes  the  Ince.  Alfred  isn't  Cr.  for  tliat,  I  know,  so 
down  it  goes  —  Abbie  Dr.  to  lace  $2.99  X  2%  yards.     But 


148  SELECTED   READINGS 

I  'm  not,  I  can't  be  Dr.  when  I  paid  for  them;  and  the  idea 
of  making  Alfred  Cr.  for  several  yards  of  lace  which  he 
does  n't  know  anything  about !     It 's  too  absurd  for  any  use 

—  I  sha'n't  change  it  anyway.  How  much  does  it  make.  $2 
X  2  yards  is  4  —  4  what?  It  can't  be  done  —  You  can't 
multiply  dollars  by  yards  —  I  am  sure  of  that  much.    Why 

—  Miss  Gumption  used  to  tease  us  dreadfully  about  that. 
She  used  to  say  —  two  oranges  multiplied  by  two  apples 
makes  what  ?    But  I  must  n't  wander  so. 

I  wish  I  knew  more  about  accounts.  Alfred  will  thinly 
I  'm  a  perfect  ignoramus.  It 's  his  o\^ti  fault.  If  he  wanted 
somebody  to  keep  his  books  he  should  have  married  Susan 
Brewer ;  but  he  never  could  bear  her  —  said  it  gave  him  the 
shivers  to  look  at  her.  Still,  it 's  a  good  thing  to  be  system- 
atic; but  that  reminds  me,  I  wonder  where  my  watch  is. 
[Searches.']  1  know  it  fell  out  of  my  pocket  when  I  was 
taking  off  my  jacket.  It  must  be  on  the  floor.  I  hope  it 
is  n't  hurt.  No,  none  of  the  pearls  are  out.  Now,  what  was 
it  I  wanted  it  for  ?  Oh,  yes,  to  wind  it.  I  'm  glad  it 's  a 
stem-winder.  Why,  it  must  be  wound  —  it  won't  go.  Why, 
yes,  it 's  going  —  I  guess  I  must  have  wound  it  some  time 
or  other ;  but  it  can't  be  so  late.  Yes,  it 's  going  —  it 's 
going.  I  must  hurrv  on,  or  I  won't  have  my  accounts  ready. 
Where  was  I?  $3.99  X  2%  yards—  Oh!  I  never  can  do 
it  in  the  world.  My !  it 's  fractions  and  decimals  mixed. 
Oh !  I  wonder  I  did  n't  think  of  that  before.  Of  course, 
$2.99  is  practically  the  same  as  $3.00,  and  2%  is  nearly  three 
yards,  so  3  X  3  are  9  yards  —  what  a  goose !  —  dollars,  I 
mean ;  $9.00  —  except  what  I  spent  for  caramels  and  carfare 
is  really  all  I  spent.    Call  it  ten  dollars.     [She  W7ites.'\ 

There !  $35.00  less  $10.00  is  $25.00,  and  that  is  what  is 
called  the  capital.  No  —  that 's  not  the  right  word.  I  've 
heard  papa  say  it  often  and  often  —  it 's  bonus,  I  guess.  No, 
it  is  n't.   [Ruhsitout.]   There,  that 's  better.  To  cash,  $25.00. 

Now,  where 's  my  pocketbook?  Here  it  is.  Now,  let's 
see !  There,  I  knew  she  was  a  hateful  thing,  that  girl  at 
Brady's,  —  she  gave  me  a  fifty-cent  piece  with  a  hole  in  it. 
[Reflects.~\  Alfred  says  they  take  all  kinds  of  money  at  the 
liquor  store.  I  suppose  they  pass  them  off  on  drunken  men. 
I  might  give  it  to  Alfred,  but  what  am  I  to  do  with  it  on  my 
accounts?  I  can't  put  it  down  as  a  Dr.  or  Cr.,  for  neither 
Alfred  nor  I  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  and  I  'm  sure  I 
can't  put  it  down  to  that  girl  at  Brady's.    But  I  might,  too; 


MONOLOGUES  149 

I  can  open  sort  of  an  account  with  her.  [Writes.']  Brady's 
shop  girl  —  one  plugged  fifty-cent  piece,  and  then  I  should 
have  to  open  an  account  on  the  opposite  page  with  Abbie 
Appleb}',  Cr.,  fifty  cents  out. 

Oh !  ^  there 's  the  bell.  It 's  Alfred.  I  remember,  I  bor- 
rowed his  latch  key ;  and  I  have  n't  my  accounts.  jSTo  mat- 
ter. I 've  made  a  good  beginning.  He  won't  blame  Ms  little 
wife  —  bless  him.  He  didn't  marry  me  because  I  was  a 
good  bookkeeper. 

I  hear  his  step.    I  '11  go  to  meet  him. 

The  darling ! 

Tudor  Jenks. 

'TWIXT    CUP    AND    LIP 

"  /^OME,  Mollv,  wake  up  and  give  me  some  tea.  "Where 's 
\J     Mina?"' 

"  She  went  to  a  luncheon  with  Mrs.  Orme  and  has  n't 
come  in  yet." 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  are  you  ill  or  only  sleepy  ?  I  'm 
sorry  I  spoilt  your  nap." 

'^  Oh,  don't  apologize ;   it  was  only  a  day  dream. 

"  A  day  dream ;  what  have  you  got  to  dream  about  ?  I 
say,  Molly,  I  've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  you  lately. 
Why  don't  you  get  married  ?  There  's  an  absence  of  fuss 
and  effort  about  your  management  that  is  altogether  charm- 
ing and  — • " 

"  Yes  ?    What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  Now,  Molly,  I  want  to  see  you  properly  appreciated, 
which  can  only  be  done  by  a  husband.  It  is  n't  right  that 
all  your  effort  should  be  thrown  away  on  a  brother.  Why 
don't  you  marry  Bertram  ?  " 

"  Oh,  noble  young  man !  But  I,  too,  can  be  generous.  I  '11 
never  desert  you ;  never !  " 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  Molly  —  cr  —  I  want  to  get  married 
myself." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Well,  Tom,  I'm  sure  Daisy  Mur- 
chison  will  make  you  a  charming  wife  and  me  a  very  amiable 
sister." 

"  How  tlie  deuce  did  you  know  it  was  Daisy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Tom,  the  idea  of  your  thinking  I  did  n't  know !  You 
canH  keep  that  sort  of  a  thing  away  from  a  girl,  espccfially  if 
that  girl  happens  to  be  your  sister." 


5J 


150  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  Yes,  it  is  Daisy.  She  's  the  sweetest  woman  I  've  ever 
met.  She 's  almost  masculine  in  her  simple-mindedness,  and 
she  's  altogether  so  sweet  and  gentle  and  charming." 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  me." 

"Well,  I  declare,  I  had  almost  forgotten  you  were  here; 
but  then  I  always  do  forget  when  I  —  " 

"  Oh,  Tom !  " 

"  But  why  don't  you  get  married,  Molly  ?  Why  don't  you 
marry  Bertram  ?  His  family  are  very  well  off  and  very  fond 
of  you." 

"  Mr.  Bertram  is  very  fond  of  a  good  dinner  and  as  he 
generally  gets  that  when  he  comes  here,  why,  he  looks  upon 
me  with  a  certain  degree  of  favor.  But  we  might  be  able  to 
settle  all  this  without  Mr.  Bertram's  assistance.  Who 
knows  ?  " 

"  Why !  How  is  tliis  ?  You  seem  to  be  very  much  in  the 
light  about  my  affairs.    How  is  it  I  don't  know  about  this  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  more  or  less  engaged  for  the  last  four  years. 
Well,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now.  You  see,  it  was  while  you 
were  abroad,  and  at  the  time  father  was  so  ill.  He  was  go- 
ing abroad,  but  as  he  had  no  fortune,  father  would  n't  hear 
of  a  formal  engagement  and  made  me  promise  to  hold  no 
communication  with  him.  Father  was  so  ill,  I  could  n't  re- 
fuse him ;  and  then  father  died  and  —  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  never  heard  from  the  fellow  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  said  he  would  n't  write  until  he  could  come  for 
me." 

"  Well,  all  I  hope  is  that  he  is  good  enough,  Molly  — 
Don't  make  a  mistake." 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  fear  of  that.  But  let  that  pass  now ;  tell 
me  about  Daisy,  Tom.  Have  you  spoken  to  her  yet?  You 
know  we  meet  at  the  Grays'  to-night  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't  know.  No,  I  've  not  spoken  yet ;  but  I  'm 
as  sure  as  a  man  can  be.  The  last  time  I  saw  her  was  at  the 
Ortens'  ball,  a  fortnight  ago,  and  then  her  mother  took  her 
away  ten  minutes  too  soon.  Since  then  she  has  been  down 
to  Brighton.  Ah,  there  's  nothing  that  I  would  not  do  for 
her,  and  I  really  think  she  would  do  a  great  deal  for  me." 

"  Yes,  I  really  think  she  will  marry  you,  Tom." 

"  Now,  Molly,  what  a  speech.  Well,  suppose  you  give  me 
some  more  tea.  By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  that  I  ran  up 
against  an  old  acquaintance  in  Cheapside  the  other  day? 
Yes,  —  Bob  Maitland." 


MONOLOGUES  151 

"  Is  he  looking  well  ?    Is  he  coming  to  see  us  soon  ?  " 

"  "Well,  I  hardly  know.  Steady,  dear !  Don't  drop  that 
cup.  What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes,  Maitland.  Yes,  he  was 
flying  along  at  a  great  pace,  and  I  stopped  and  asked  him  what 
he  meant  by  cutting  his  old  friends  in  that  fashion,  and  he 
hurried  off  a  lot  of  words  about  just  getting  back  from  Eu- 
rope and  having  an  appointment,  and  left  me  in  the  middle 
of  a  word  to  see  a  man.  Vernon  was  with  me  at  the  time, 
and  he  laughed  and  said  that  he  had  a  good  joke  on  Mait- 
land :  he  just  got  back  from  Europe  a  short  time  ago  and  the 
other  day  became  engaged  to  a  girl  on  the  strength  of  a  week's 
acquaintance.    Good  joke,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  " 

"  By  the  wa}^  Molly,  I  wish  you  would  n't  sit  so  close  to 
that  lamp  —  it  makes  you  look  almost  green.  Hello, 
here  's  Mina.  Well,  little  one,  what  kind  of  a  time  did  you 
have?" 

"  Oh,  lovely !  You  know  I  went  to  luncheon  with  Mrs. 
Orme,  and  then  we  went  to  a  Miss  Somebody's  concert,  but 
that  was  awful  slow,  a  perfect  bore;  but  who  do  you  think 
I  saw  there  ?  —  Oh,  don't  go,  Mally,  this  is  the  most  inter- 
esting part  —  Daisy  Murchison  and  her  betrothed :  the  hand- 
somest man,  a  perfect  love,  a  Mr.  Mat  —  Maitland ;  yes, 
that 's  it  —  Maitland ;  and  she  did  look  so  sweet  and  happy 
and  she  had  on  the  loveliest  cloak  you  ever  saw." 

"  Mina,  dear,  a  large  box  came  for  you  to-day ;  it  looks 
as  though  there  might  be  flowers  in  it  —  " 

"Oh,  goody!    Where  is  it?" 

"  In  your  room." 

"  Hang  it  all,  can't  you  say  something  to  a  fellow  ?  You 
might  show  some  sympathy,  I  think.  How  am  I  to  meet 
that  girl  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Tom,  how  am  I  to  meet  that  man  ?  " 

ANONTMOUg, 

WIVES    IN    A    SOCIAL    GAME* 

BIGSBY  and  his  wife  went  round  to  the  Crosbys'  the  other 
night  to  spend  the  evening.  They  had  been  there  only 
a  short  time  when  Crosby  said,  "  Supposing  we  have  a  game 
of  euchre  ?  " 

*  From  "  A  Modern  Reader  and  Speaker"  by  George  Riddle.  Copyright,  1899, 
by  Herbert  S.  Stone  it  Co.,  Duffield  ib  Company,  Successors. 


152  SELECTED   READINGS 

Mrs.  B,  Oh,  let 's ;   I  think  euchre  is  perfectly  lovely. 

C.  All  right;  we  '11  have  a  game  or  two. 

So  the  cards  were  brought  out  and  a  table  cleared  for  the 
game.  Like  most  men  Crosby  and  Bigsby  liked  to  play  cards 
as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  but  it  was  different 
with  the  women. 

Mrs.  B.  [Seating  herself  at  table  facing  the  audience,  and 
waving  to  the  others  to  sit  also.']  I  like  euchre  because  it 's 
such  a  sociable  game.  Now,  in  whist  one  has  to  give  such 
close  attention  to  the  game  that  — 

C.    Come,  cut  for  deal ! 

Mrs.  C.  Hope  I  '11  get  it. 

Mrs.  B.  You  '11  be  real  mean  if  you  do.  I  always  like  to. 
Oh,  Mr.  Crosby  has  the  deal,  and  he  's  my  partner.  Goodie  ! 
goodie ! 

Mrs.  C.  You  're  horrid !  Oh,  by  the  waj'',  I  met  May 
Griggson  and  her  baby  on  the  street  this  afternoon.  She  'd 
been  down  getting  the  baby  photographed.  I  'd  never  seen 
her  baby  before,  although  it 's  five  months  old  and  — 

Mrs.  B.  I  've  never  seen  it  yet.    Is  it  pretty  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Well,  it  has  Ma/s  eyes  and  nose  to  a  T,  but  of 
course,  one  can't  tell  how  such  a  young  baby  will  look  when  — 
Oh,  are  those  my  cards  ?    What 's  trumps  ? 

C.  Hearts. 

Mrs.  C.  Oh,  mercy !  I  've  a  perfectly  awful  hand.  I  hope 
my  partner  — 

Mr.  C.  Come !  come !  no  talking  across  the  table.  What 
will  3^ou  do  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Oh,  I  pass.    I  have  n't  a  single  trump,  and  — 

Mrs.  C.  I  'm  not  much  better  off.  But  about  May  Grigg- 
son; they  say  that  Tom,  her  husband,  thinks  that  the  sun 
rises  and  sets  in  that  baby,  and  that  May  won't  leave  it  for 
an  hour,  not  even  with  her  own  mother,  and  —  Oh,  did  you 
know  that  Jenny  Traft's  engagement  to  Fred  Hilton  had  been 
announced  ? 

Mrs.  B.  No  ! 

Mrs.  C.  It's  so,  and —  Oh,  is  it  my  play?  What's 
trumps  ? 

Mr.  C.  Hearts! 

Mrs.  B.  Who  led? 

Mr.  B.  Crosby. 

Mrs.  B.  Then  I  —  Oh,  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  play. 
Let  me  see,  I  've  got  to  follow  suit,  have  n't  I  ?    I  guess  this 


MONOLOGUES  153 

nine-spot  will  do.  As  I  was  saj-ing,  Jennie  and  Fred  were 
engaged  at  last  and  they  say  that  the  wedding 's  to  be  right 
away  for  —    Is  n't  that  a  new  waist  you  have  on  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Yes  —  you  like  it  ? 

]\Irs.  B.  I  think  it 's  lovely.  Here,  they  said  two  years  ago 
that  fancy  waists  were  going  out,  and  I  do  believe  that  they 
are  worn  more  than  ever. 

Mrs.  C.  Of  course  they  are  for  —  "VVliat  ?  It 's  my  play ! 
AYhat  's  trumps  —  hearts  ?  I  thought  diamonds  were  trumps. 
Well,  it  does  n't  make  any  difference,  for  I  have  n't  any. 
What  led  —  spades  ?  Who  played  that  ten-spot.  I  have  n't 
any  spades,  so  I  guess  I  'd  better  trump  it  for  — •  Oh,  my 
partner 's  already  trumped  it  with  his  right  bower  and  I 
threw  away  that  good  left  bower.  Can't  I  take  it  back?  I 
can't?  Well,  it 's  real  mean.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  my  dress- 
maker says  that  she  made  more  fancy  waists  this  season  than 
ever  before. 

Mrs.  B.  I  don't  doubt  it.  I  'm  having  me  one  made  of 
black  chiffon  over  orange  silk  with  beautiful  jet  passemen- 
teries and  —  What !  It 's  my  play  ?  Let  me  see  —  What 's 
trumps. 

Mr.  B.  Hearts! 

Mrs.  B.  You  needn't  be  so  cross  about  it,  Mr.  Bigsby. 
What  led? 

Mr.  B.  Diamonds. 

Mrs.  B.  Diamonds !  And  you  say  that  hearts  are  trump. 
Hearts,  hearts,  —  I  have  n't  any  hearts  nor  any  trumps,  so 
I  '11  play  this  club  for  —  Yes,  it 's  a  fine  black  chiffon,  and 
you  can't  think  how  lovely  the  orange  taffeta  silk  looks  under 
it.  The  chiffon  tones  the  orange  down  to  the  loveliest  tint 
of  pinkish  yellow,  and  I  'm  having  rows  and  rows  of  fine 
tucking  in  front  and  — 

Mrs.  C.  I  should  think  it  would  be  lovely.  Are  n't  you 
glad  that  those  cunning  and  pretty  little  boleros  have  come 
in  again?    Oh,  it's  my  play.    What's  trumps? 

Mr.  C.  Hearts! 

Mrs.  C.  Mercy!  don't  take  my  head  off,  if  hearts  ore 
trumps,  Jack  Crosby.  That 's  the  way  with  men ;  they  play 
cards  as  if  their  lives  were  at  stake,  and  I  —  Oh,  say,  maybe 
—  supposing  we  let  Jack  and  George  finish  the  game,  and 
3/0U  go  upstairs  with  me  and  see  a  new  hat  I  've  just  had  sent 
home.  It's  the  most  fetching  thing  I  've  had  for  years,  and 
I  'm  dying  to  show  it  to  you.    I  don't  care  for  euchre,  anyhow. 


154  SELECTED   READINGS 

Mrs.  B.  Neither  do  I.    Whist  is  my  game. 

Mrs.  C.  Mine  too.  There!  [Throwing  down  her  cards.'\ 
You  horrid,  cross  men ;  you  can  go  on  with  the  game  by  your- 
selves. 

Which  they  were  glad  to  do,  after  changing  the  game  from 
euchre  to  poker. 

Anonymous. 

Adapted  by  Anna  Morgan. 


Ill 

POETRY 


SHAKESPEARE 

He  is  above  everybody  of  every  time.     No  such  man  has  been  seen 
in  the  world ;  nothing  so  profound  anywhere  out  of  the  Bible. 

Thomas  Carlyle. 

"  Revolving  years  have  flitted  on ; 
Corroding  time  has  done  its  worst. 
Pilgrim  and  worshipper  have  gone 
From  Avon's  shrine  to  shrine  of  dust. 
But  Shakespeare  lives  unrivalled  still 
And  unapproached  by  mortal  mind, 
The  giant  of  Parnassus  hill, 
The  pride  and  monarch  of  mankind." 


Ill  —  POETRY 


HAMLET'S    INSTRUCTION    TO    THE    PLAYERS 

Hamlet,  Act  HI,  Scene  2 

SPEAK  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, 
trippingly  on  the  tongue ;  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many 
of  your  players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spoke  my  lines. 
Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand,  thus,  but 
use  all  gently ;  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may 
say,  the  whirlwind  of  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a 
temperance  that  may  give  it  smoothness.  0,  it  offends  me  to 
the  soul  to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a 
passion  to  tatters,  to  very  rags,  to  split  the  ears  of  the  ground- 
lings, who  for  the  most  part  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inex- 
plicable dumb-shows  and  noise.  I  could  have  such  a  fellow 
whipped  for  o'erdoing  Termagant;  it  out-herods  Herod: 
pray  you,  avoid  it. 

Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  own  discretion  be 
your  tutor:  suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the  word  to  the 
action;  with  this  special  observance,  that  you  o'erstep  not  the 
modesty  of  nature;  for  anything  so  overdone  is  from  the  pur- 
pose of  playing,  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was  and 
is,  to  hold,  as  't  were,  the  mirror  up  to  nature ;  to  show  virtue 
her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age  and 
body  of  the  time  his  form  and  pressure.  Now  this  overdone, 
or  come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot 
but  make  the  judicious  grieve ;  the  censure  of  the  which  one 
must  in  your  allowance  o'erweigh  a  whole  theatre  of  others. 
0,  there  be  players  that  I  have  seen  play,  and  heard  others 
praise,  and  that  highly,  not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that,  neither 
having  the  accent  of  Christians  nor  the  gait  of  Christian, 
7)agan,  nor  man,  have  so  strutted  and  ])ellowed  that  I  have 
thought  some  of  nature's  journeymen  had  made  men  and  not 
made  them  well,  they  imitated  humanity  so  abominably. 


158  SELECTED   READINGS 


HAMLET'S    DECLARATION    OF    FRIENDSHIP  i 

From  Act  III,  Scene  2  ; 

Hamlet. 

WHAT  ho!    Horatio!  '' 

Horatio.  Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service.  i 

Hamlet.  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man  j 

As  e'er  my  conversation  coped  withal.  i 

Horatio.  0,  my  dear  lord,  — 

Hamlet.  JSTay,  do  not  think  I  flatter ; 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee  ; 

That  no  revenue  hast  but  thy  good  spirits,  | 

To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?    Why  should  the  poor  be  flatter'd?  , 

No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp,  ■ 

And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee  I 

T\Tiere  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou  hear?  i 

Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice  j 

And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election  j 

Hath  sealed  thee  for  herself ;  for  thou  hast  been  j 

As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suffers  nothing,  i 

A  man  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards  ! 

Hast  ta'en  with  equal  thanks :  and  blest  are  those  ] 

Whose  blood  and  judgement  are  so  well  commingled  ; 

That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  Fortune's  finger                         '  j 

To  sound  what  stop  she  please.    Give  me  that  man  j 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart. 
As  I  do  thee. 

OTHELLO'S    APOLOGY 

[Othello's  apology  is,  as  he  himself  declares,  a  plain  unvarnished 

tale  of  his  wooing  of  Desdemona.    The  speech  calls  for  great  dignity,  I 

simplicity,  and  power,  in  both  speech  and  manner.]  j 

MOST  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors,  I 

My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters,  i 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter. 

It  is  most  true ;  true,  I  have  married  her :  ; 

The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending  \ 

Hath  this  extent,  no  more.    Eude  am  I  in  my  speech,  j 

And  little  bless'd  with  the  soft  phrase  of  peace ;  ; 

For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith,  j 

Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  used  ; 

i 

J 
I 
i 


POETRY  159 

Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field, 

And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 

3.tore  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle. 

And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 

In  speaking  for  myself.    Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 

I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 

Of  my  whole  course  of  love ;  what  drugs,  what  charms. 

What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic,  — 

For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal,  — 

I  won  his  daughter. 

•  •••••• 

Her  father  loved  me ;  oft  invited  me ; 

Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 

From  year  to  year,  —  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 

That  i  have  pass'd. 

]  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days. 

To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it : 

AYlierein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field. 

Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach, 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 

And  sold  to  slavery,  of  my  redemption  thence 

And  portance  in  my  travels'  history : 

This  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline: 
But  still  the  house-affairs  would  draw  her  thence; 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch. 
She  'Id  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse :   which  I  observing. 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard. 
But  not  intentively:   I  did  consent, 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suffer'd.    My  story  being  done. 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 
She  swore,  in  faith,  't  was  strange,  't  was  passing  strange, 
'T  was  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful: 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 


160  SELECTED   READINGS 

That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man :  she  thank'd  me. 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 

1  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 

And  that  would  woo  her.    Upon  this  hint  I  spake : 

She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd ; 

And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used. 


MERCUTIO'S   DESCRIPTION    OF    QUEEN   MAB 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  I,  Scene  4 

fThese  lines  are  the  finest  example  in  the  language  of  a  pure  staccato 
movement  of  syllables,  lightly  and  separately  poised.  Only  a  butter- 
fly could  give  adequately  its  grace  and  spring  and  airiness.] 

OH,  then,  I  see  Queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife ;  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman, 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep ; 
Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs, 
The  cover  of  the  -wings  of  gi'asshoppers, 
The  traces  of  the  smallest  spider's  web. 
The  collars  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams. 
Her  whip  of  cricket's  bone,  the  lash  of  film, 
Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat, 
N'ot  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Prick' d  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid : 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
]\Iade  by  the  joiner  squirrel  or  old  grub. 
Time  out  o'  mind  the  fairies'  coachmakers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love ; 
O'er  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies  straight; 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees ; 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream, 
Wliich  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted  are : 
Sometime  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit ; 
And  sometime  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep. 


POETRY  161 

Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice :  ! 

Sometime  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck,  | 

And  then  dreams  he  of  ciitting  foreign  throats. 
Of  breaches,  ambiiscadoes,  Spanish  blades. 
Of  healths  five-fathom  deep  ;   and  then  anon 

Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes,  j 

And  being  thus  frighted  swears  a  prayer  or  two. 

And  sleeps  again.  ] 

i 

THE    SEVEN    AGES 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  II,  Scexe  7 

[This  is  a  succession  of  purely  imaginative  ideas  which  the  voice 
sliovild  touch  lightly.  In  this  speech  one  meets  always  the  question 
of  impersonation:  shall  the  mevvUng  infant,  the  whining  schoolboy, 
the  sighing  lover  and  the  rest  be  imitated  by  the  reader?     It  is  in  j 

better  taste  not  to  impersonate  these  seven  characters  beyond  certain  j 

almost  imperceptible  hints  which  the  gayety  of  Jaques's  mind  might 
naturally  tlirow  off.] 

ALL  the  world  's  a  stage,  j 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players :  i 

They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances ;  i 

And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts. 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.    At  first  the  infant, 

Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms :  i 

And  then  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
LTnwillingly  to  school.    And  then  the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.    Then  a  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel. 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth.    And  then  the  justice,  \ 

In  fair  round  belly  with  good  capon  lined, 
AVith  eyes  severe  and  beard  of  formal  cut. 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modem  instances ; 

And  so  he  plays  his  part.    The  sixth  age  shifts  I 

Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon. 
With  spectacles  on  nose  and  pouch  on  side; 

His  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide  i 

For  his  shrunk  shank ;  and  his  big  manly  voice,  I 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes  i 

11  1 


I 
162  SELECTED   READINGS  ! 

And  whistles  in  his  sound.    Last  scene  of  all. 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  histor}',  , 

Is  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion, 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything.  \ 


THE    MOTLEY    FOOL 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  II,  Scene  7 

[Jaques  quotes  from  the  fool  with  direct  and  intended  imitation, 
even  exaggeration  of  the  latter's  voice  and  manner.  Here  we  find  a 
good  example  of  imcontroUed  laughter.] 

A  FOOL,  a  fool !    I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool ;  a  miserable  world ! 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun. 
And  rail'd  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 
In  good  set  terms,  and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
'*'  Good  morrow,  fool,"  quoth  I.    "  No,  sir,"  quoth  he, 
"  Call  me  not  fool  till  Heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune." 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke. 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye. 
Says  very  wisely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock : 
Thus  we  may  see,"  quoth  he,  "  how  the  world  wags : 
'T  is  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine. 
And  after  one  hour  more  't  will  be  eleven ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe. 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot; 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."    Wlien  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time. 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative. 
And  I  did  laugh  sans  intermission 
An  hour  by  his  dial.    0  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool !    Motley 's  the  only  wear. 


POETRY  163 

BENEDICK'S    SOLILOQUY 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  Act  II,  Scene  3 

[The  solilofjuy  is  about  Claudio  in  love.  Although  it  is  directed 
against  matrimony,  we  see  that  Benedick  has  his  own  marriage  in 
mind.  His  wife  must  be  fair,  mild,  noble,  witty,  rich,  wise,  virtuous, 
and  musical.  He  afterwards  confesses  to  have  all  these  tilings  com- 
bined in  Beatrice.] 

BO Y !  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book :  bring  it 
liither  to  me  in  the  orchard.  ...  I  do  much  wonder 
that  one  man,  seeing  how  much  another  man  is  a  fool  when 
he  dedicates  his  behaviors  to  love,  will,  after  he  hath  laughed 
at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the  argument  of  his 
own  scorn  by  falling  in  love ;  and  such  a  man  is  Claudio.  I 
have  known  when  there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the  drum 
and  the  fife ;  and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the 
pipe:  I  have  kno^^^l  when  he  would  have  walked  ten  mile 
afoot  to  see  a  good  armor;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights 
awake,  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He  Avas  wont  to 
speak  plain  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest  man  and  a 
soldier;  and  now  is  he  turned  orthography:  his  words  are  a 
very  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many  strange  dislies.  May  I 
be  so  converted  and  see  with  these  eyes?  I  cannot  tell;  I 
think  not.  I  will  not  be  sworn  but  love  may  transform  me  to 
an  oyster;  but  I  '11  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have  made  an 
oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me  such  a  fool.  One  woman 
is  fair,  yet  I  am  well ;  another  is  wise,  yet  I  am  well :  an- 
other virtuous,  yet  I  am  well;  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one 
woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace.  Rich  she 
shall  be,  that's  certain;  wise,  or  I  '11  none;  virtuous,  or  T  '11 
never  cheapen  her;  fair,  or  I  '11  never  look  on  her;  mild,  or 
come  not  near  me ;  noble,  or  not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good  dis- 
course, an  excellent  musician,  and  ho-  hair  shall  be  of  what 
color  it  please  God. 


o 


LIFE'S    REVELS 

The  Tempest,  Act  IV,  Scene  1 
UE  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors. 


As  J  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air: 


164  SELECTED   READINGS 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision. 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.    We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on ;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 


JULIET'S    WOOING    OF    THE    NIGHT 

From  Eomeo  and  Juliet,  Act  III,  Scene  2.    Capulet's 

orchard 

Enter  Juliet 
Juliet. 

GALLOP  apace,  you  fiery-footed  steeds 
Towards  Phoebus'  lodging :  such  a  wagoner 
As  Phaethon  would  whip  you  to  the  west. 
And  bring  in  cloudy  night  immediately. 
Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  night. 
That  runaways'  eyes  may  wink,  and  Eomeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of  and  unseen. 

■  •••••• 

Come  night ;  come  Eomeo ;  come,  thou  day  in  night ; 

For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 

^AHiiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back. 

Come,  gentle  night,  come,  loving,  black-brow'd  night 

Give  me  my  Eomeo  ;  and,  when  he  shall  die. 

Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars, 

And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine 

That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  night 

And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun. 


Act  II   Scene  5.    Capulet's  orchard 
Enter  Juliet 

Juliet.     The  clock   struck  nine  when  I  did  send  the 
nurse ; 
In  half  an  hour  she  promised  to  return. 
Perchance  she  cannot  meet  him ;  that 's  not  so. 


POETRY  165 

0,  she  is  lame !  love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's  beams. 
Driving  back  shadows  over  lowering  hills ; 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinion'd  doves  draw  love. 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings. 
Xow  is  the  sun  upon  the  highmost  hill 
Of  this  day's  journey  and  from  nine  till  twelve 
Is  three  long  hours,  3'et  she  is  not  come. 
Had  she  affections  and  warm  youthful  blood. 
She  would  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball ; 
My  words  would  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love. 
And  his  to  me : 

[Nurse  is  seen  approaching. 

0  Heaven,  she  comes!    [Running  to  her.]    0  honey  nurse, 

what  news? 
ISTuRSE.   [Irritated.] 

1  am  a-wear}'  [Looks  at  Juliet],  give  me  leave  awhile: 

[Juliet  takes  nurse's  cane,  rests  it  against  a  tree. 
Nurse  walks  toivards  rustic  seat. 
Fie,  how  my  bones  ache!     [Puts  both  hands  on  her  knees: 
sinks  on  seat.]  what  a  jaimt  have  I  had ! 
Juliet.  [Runs  to  her  and  kneels  at  her  left  side.] 
I  would  thou  hadst  my  bones,  and  I  thy  news. 
Nay,  come,  I  pray  thee,  speak ;  good,  good  nurse,  speak. 

[Puts  arms  about  her  neck. 
Nurse.   [Unclasping    Juliet's    hands    and    casting    her 
aside.]    Jesu,  what  haste  ?  can  you  not  stay  awhile  ? 

[Fanning  herself  with  her  hands. 
Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  out  of  breath  ? 

Juliet.  [In  graceful  attitude  on  the  floor,  leaning  on  her 
hands,  behind  her.] 
How  art  thou  out  of  breath,  when  thou  hast  breath 
To  say  to  me  that  thou  art  out  of  breath  ? 
The  excuse  that  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay 
Is  longer  than  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 

[Rises  to  her  knees,  puts  arms  around  nurse's  neck. 
Is  thy  news  good,  or  bad  ?   answer  to  that ; 
Say  either,  and  1  '11  stay  the  circumstance. 

[Puts  her  check  against  the  nurse's  cheek. 
Let  me  be  satisfied,  is  't  good  or  bad  ? 

Nurse.  Well,  you  have  made  a  simple  choice; 
You  know  not  how  to  choose  a  man, 

[Juliet  rises  and  pouts. 


166  SELECTED   READINGS 

Go  thy  ways,  wench ;  serve  God. 

[During  this  dialogue  the  nurse  delights  in  teas- 
ing Juliet,  being  a  little  jealous  of  Juliet's 
anxiety  to  hear  from  Romeo. 
AVhat,  have  you  dined  at  home  ? 

Juliet.  No,  no ;  but  all  this  did  I  know  before. 

[Goes  behind  nurse,  putting  her  arms  about  her 
nech,  coaxingly. 
What  says  he  of  our  marriage  ?    What  of  that  ? 

Nurse.  Lord,  how  my  head  aches !    [Juliet  tenderly  rubs 
one  side  of  nurse's  head.']   what  a  head  have  I ! 

[Juliet  rubs  other  side. 
It  beats  as  it  would  fall  in  twenty  pieces. 

[Juliet  rubs  both  sides  at  same  time;    makes 
'pantomime  of  impatience. 
My  back  [Juliet  kneels  and  rubs  her  right  side.]  o'  t'  other 
side, 

[Juliet  rises  and  goes  to  the  other  side;  kneels, 
and  rubs  other  side. 
[Rocking  back  and  forth.]    0,  my  back,  my  back ! 

[Looks  at  Juliet  severely. 
Beshrew  your  heart  for  sending  me  about, 
To  catch  my  death  with  jaunting  up  and  down ! 

Juliet.   [Embracing  nurse.] 
V  faith,  I  am  sorry  that  thou  art  not  well. 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says  my  love  ? 

Nurse.  Your  love  says  [Juliet  jumps  up,  clapping  her 

hands,  delighted  that  she  is  at  last  to  be  told  the  neivs.], 

like  an  honest  gentleman,         [Juliet  nods  in  approval. 

And  a  courteous,  [Juliet  nods  again.]  and  a  kind,  [Juliet 

nods  again.]  and  a  handsome, 

[Juliet  nods  ecstatically. 
And,  I  warrant,  a  virtuous,  —        [Juliet  looks  disapproval. 

Where  is  your  mother? 
Juliet.   [Slowly  goes  behind  the  nurse,  to  her  left.] 
Where  is  my  mother !  why,  she  is  within ; 
AVhere  should  she  be  ?    How  oddly  thou  repliest ! 
''  Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentleman, 
AVhere  is  your  mother?  " 

Nurse.  0  God's  lady  dear ! 

Are  you  so  hot  ?  marry,  come  up,  I  trow ; 

[Juliet  goes  to  her. 
Is  this  the  poultice  for  my  aching  bones? 


POETRY  167 

Hencefon\"ard  do  your  messages  yourself. 

Juliet.  [Retires  slowly  up  stage,  poutinghj-l 
Here 's  suoh  a  coil ! 

[Juliet,  in  pantomime,  indicates  to  the  audi- 
ence that  she  will  coax  the  nurse;  she  goes 
on  tiptoe  to  her  right  side,  and  attempts  to 
hiss  her  on  right  cheel'.  The  nurse  hastily 
turns  her  head,  looking  at  the  audience  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  II  l:eep  this  up  for 
awhile."  Juliet  resolves  to  malce  a  second 
attempt.  She  tiptoes  around  softly  to  the 
nurse's  left  side  and  stoops  to  hiss  her.  The 
nurse  again  turns  her  head.  Juliet  hesi- 
tates; then  resolves  to  mal'e  a  third  effort; 
she  tiptoes  in  a  wide  circle,  round  light, 
down  in  front  of  the  nurse,  who  can  no 
longer  withstand  her.  She  extends  both 
arms  to  Juliet,  who  flies  into  them,  and  is 
clasped  in  a  warm  embrace. 
come,  what  says  Eomeo? 
Nurse.  [Looking  at  Juliet  fondly.'] 
Have  you  got  leave  to  go  to  shrift  to-day  ? 

Juliet.   [Jumping  up  and  clapping  her  hands.']     I  have. 
JSTuRSE.  Then  hie  you  hence  to  Friar  Laurence'  cell ; 
There  stays  a  husband  to  make  you  a  wife. 

[Juliet  stands   in   bashful   attitude,   blushing, 
covers  her  cheek  v)ith  her  hand,  the  fingers 
of  which  are  spread  widely  apart.     Nurse 
observing. 
Xow  comes  the  wanton  blood  up  in  your  cheeks,  .  .  . 
Hie  you  to  church,  [Rising  and  going  to  right.]    I  must  an- 
other way, 

[Juliet  runs,  fetches  the  nurse's  cane,  which  she 
places  in  her  right  hand,  at  the  same  time 
throwing  her  left  arm  affectionately  around 
the  nurse,  as  they  go  up  right. 

To  fetch  a  ladder,  by  the  which  your  love 

Must  climb  a  bird's  nest  soon 

[Turning  around  left  and  facing  Juliet;  speak- 
ing in  low  tone. 

when  it  is  dark; 
Go ;  I  '11  to  dinner :  hie  you  to  the  cell. 


168  SELECTED    READINGS 

Juliet.  [Joyously.'] 
Hie  to  high  fortune !    Honest  nurse,  farewell. 

[As  Juliet  is  rushing  off  left,  the  nurse  gives  a 
slight  cough;  Juliet  turns,  rushes  hack,  and 
hisses  the  nurse  on  her  left  cheek;  then  hur- 
riedly leaves  the  stage,  left.  The  nurse 
leaning  on  her  cane,  starids  watching  her, 
nods  her  head,  sighs,  and  goes  off  right. 

Shakespeare. 
Arranged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


THE    POTION    SCENE 

From  Eomeo  and  Juliet,  Act  IV,  Scene  3 
Scene  :  Juliet's  chamber 

Enter  Juliet  and  Nurse,  who  hears  wedding  garments 

Juliet.   [Looking  at  garments.] 

AY,  those  attires  are  best :  but,  gentle  nurse, 
I  pray  thee,  leave  me  to  myself  to-night; 
For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state, 
Which,  well  thou  know'st,  is  cross  and  full  of  sin. 

Enter  Lady  Capulet 

Lady  Cap.  "V\Tiat,  are  you  bus}^  ho  ?  need  you  my  help  ? 
Juliet.  No,  madam ;  we  have  cull'd  such  necessaries 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  state  to-morrow : 
So  please  you,  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you; 
For,  I  am  sure,  j-ou  have  your  hands  full  all, 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 

Lady  Cap.   [Crossing  and  kissing  Juliet  on  the  fore- 
head.]  Goodnight; 
Get  thee  to  bed  and  rest,  for  thou  hast  need. 

[Exit  Lady  Capulet,  right,  followed  hy  nurse, 
who  pauses,  looks  at  Juliet,  comes  back, 
embraces  her,  and  exit  hurriedly. 
Juliet.   [Looking  after  them.] 
Farewell !    God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again. 
I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins. 


POETRY  169 

That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life : 
I  '11  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me. 

\^Run7iing  to  right. 
Xurse !    "\Miat  should  she  do  here  ? 
!My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. 
Come,  vial. 

[Taking  vial  from  her  hosom,  holding  it  in  left 
hand  and  referring  to  it  with  right  hand. 
"What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all  ? 
Shall  I  be  married  then  to-morrow  morning? 
No,  no:    [Draiving  dagger  with  right  hand  from  girdle  left.'] 

tliis  shall  forbid  it.     [Advances  three  steps  and  lays 

the  dagger  on  a  small  tahle.~\ 

Lie  thou  there. 

[Again  referring  to  the  vial. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  Friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead. 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonor'd 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Eomeo  ? 
I  fear  it  is ;   and  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not. 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man. 

[Puts  vial  in  her  hosom. 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Eomeo 
Come  to  redeem  me  ?  there 's  a  fearful  point ! 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault, 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes  in. 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Eomeo  comes? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night. 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place,  — 
As  in  a  vault,  an  ancient  receptacle. 
Where,  for  these  many  hundred  years,  the  bones 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  packed; 
A\'here  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth. 
Lies  festering  in  his  shroud;  where,  as  they  say. 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort;  .  .  . 
0,  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught. 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone. 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains? 


170  SELECTED   READINGS 

0,  look !  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Eomeo,  .  .  . 

Stay,  Tybalt,  stay  !  — 
Borneo,  I  come ! 

[Drawing  vial  from  hosom  with  left  hand  and 
tvith drawing  cork  with  right  hand. 
this  do  I  drink  to  thee. 
[Throws  away  the  vial.    She  is  overcome,  sinks 
to  the  couch  or  floor. 

[Note.     Neither  the  vial  nor  the  dagger  should  be  used  except 
when  the  scene  is  given  with  costumes  and  scenery.] 


UP   AT   A   VILLA  — DOWN   IN    THE   CITY 

[An  Italian  of  quality  who  is  bored  to  death  in  his  country  residence, 
but  cannot  afford  the  town,  contrasts  the  dulness  of  the  villa  with 
the  amusements  of  the  city.] 

HAD  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city- 
square  ; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there ! 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least !     . 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast ; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a 
beast. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull. 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 
—  I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair 's  turned 
wool. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city  —  the  square  with  the  houses !  Why  ? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there 's  something  to 

take  the  eye ! 
Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry ; 
You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who  hurries 

by; 
Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun 

gets  high ; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 


POETRY  171 

What  of  a  villa  ?    Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 

'T  is  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  witliered  well  oli 
the  heights : 

You  've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen 
steam  and  wheeze, 

And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive- 
trees. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you  ?    You  've  summer  all  at  once ; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three  fingers 

well. 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick  and 

sell. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square  ?  There  's  a  fountain  to  spout 
and  splash ! 

In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs;  in  the  shine  such  foam- 
bows  flash 

On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and  paddle 
and  pash 

Eound  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch  —  fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 

Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in 
a  sort  of  sash. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you 
linger, 

Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  Death's  lean  lifted  fore- 
finger. 

Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  com  and 
mingle. 

Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  a-tingle. 

Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill, 

zVnd  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous 
firs  on  the  hill. 

Enough  of  the  seasons,  —  I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever 
and  chill. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells 

begin : 
No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in : 
You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  3'ou  never  a  pin. 


172  SELECTED    READINGS 

By  and  by  there  's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood, 

draws  teeth ; 
Or  the  Pulcinello-tnimpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture,  —  the  new  play,  piping 

hot ! 
And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves 

were  shot. 
Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes. 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new  law 

of  the  Duke's ! 
Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don  So-and- 

So, 
Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint  Jerome,  and  Cicero, 
"And  moreover"   (the  sonnet  goes  rh}Tning),  "the  skirts 

of  Saint  Paul  has  reached. 
Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous 

than  ever  he  preached." 
Xoon  strikes,  —  here  sweeps  the  procession !  our  Lady  borne 

smiling  and  smart 
^yith  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck 

in  her  heart ! 
Bang-wliang-wliang  goes  the  drum,  tooth-te-tootJe  the  fife. 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still :  it 's  the  greatest  pleasure  in 

life. 

But  bless  you,  it 's  dear  —  it 's  dear  !   fowls,  wine,  at  double 

the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays 

passing  the  gate 
It's  a  horror  to  think  of.  And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the  city ! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers :    but  still  —  ah,  the  pity, 

the  pity ! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with  cowls 

and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,   a-holding  the 

yellow  candles; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with 

handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better  pre- 
vention of  scandals : 
Bang-wliang -whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in  life ! 

Robert  Browning. 


POETRY  173 


SUMMUIM    BONUM  | 

ALL  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag  of 
one  bee :  i 

All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart  of  j 

one  gem:  ! 

In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine  of  the  \ 

sea: 
Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine,  —  wonder,  wealth, 

and  —  how  far  above  them  —  \ 

Truth,  that 's  brighter  than  gem,  ; 

Trust,  that 's  purer  than  pearl,  I 

Brightest  truth,  purest  trust  in  the  universe  —  all  were  for  j 

me  j 

In  the  kiss  of  one  girl.  ; 

Egbert  Browning.  | 

j 

A    TALE  i 

[A  wife  is  recalling  to  her  poet  husband  a  tale  which  he  once  told  j 

her  of  a  musician  who  was  enabled  to  win  a  prize  through  the  aid  of  | 

a  cricket,  who  sounded  the  wanting  note  when  one  of  the  strings  of 
his  lyre  snapped  in  twain.  She  desires  similar  recognition  from  hei 
husband  for  the  encouragement  and  help  she  has  given  him.] 

WHAT  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me  j 

Once  upon  a  time 
—  Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me  !) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme,  'i 

Greek  or  Latin?    Greek,  you  said. 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 

Anyhow  there 's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more. 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting!)  | 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore,  j 

Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre ; 
Playing  was  important  clearly  I 

Quite  as  singing:    I  desire, 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that 's  behind. 


174  SELECTED   READINGS 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 
Held  the  judges  round, 

—  Judges  able,  I  should  mention. 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears ! 

None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon. 
Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out :  take  the  prize !  " 

When,  a  mischief !    Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  hTe  possessed?  j 
Oh,  and  afterwards  eleven. 

Thank  you !     Well,  sir,  —  who  had  guessed  ; 

Such  ill  luck  in  store  ?  —  it  happed  ■; 

One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped.  ' 

All  was  lost,  then  !    iSTo  !   a  cricket  ! 

(What  "cicada"?    Pooh!) 

—  Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket  ' 

For  mere  love  of  music  —  flew  ! 

With  its  little  heart  on  fire,  •  i 

Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre.  j 

So  that  when  (Ah,  joy  !)  our  singer  j 

For  his  truant  string  ; 

Feels  with  disconcerted  finger,  i 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling  | 

Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note  , 

Wanted  by  the  throbbing  tliroat?  1 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending,  j 

Cricket  chirps  at  need,  i 

Executes  the  hand's  intending,  I 

Promptly,  perfectly,  —  indeed  i 

Saves  the  singer  from  defeat  \ 

With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet.  j 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges  I 

Cry  with  one  assent, 
"  Take  the  prize  —  a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument  ? 


POETRY  175 

Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sliarp !  " 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done? 
That 's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul  development. 

No  !    This  other,  on  returning 

Homeward,  prize  in  hand. 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning  : 

(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand!) 
—  Said  "  Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me !  " 

So,  he  made  himself  a  statue: 

Marble  stood,  life-size ; 
On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

That 's  the  tale :   its  application? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Through  his  poetry  that 's  —  Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize ! 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket. 

When  his  statue 's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  'T  was  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped  ? 

"  For  as  victory  was  nighest, 

While  I  sang  and  played,  — 
With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest. 

Right  alike,  —  one  string  tliat  made 
*  Love '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 
Never  to  be  heard  again,  — 


176  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 

But  you  don't  know  music !    WTieref  ore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a  —  poet  ?    All  I  care  for 

Is  —  to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
"  Love  "  comes  aptly  in  when  gruff 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough!) 

Egbert  Browning. 


ONE    WAY    OF    LOVE 

[A  lover  has  spent  all  "June"  in  gathering  roses  to  strew  on  his 
love's  path  with  the  chance  of  her  seeing  them ;  he  has  spent  months 
mastering  the  difficulties  of  the  lute.  If  Pauline  had  bidden  him  sing 
he  would  have  been  prepared.  He  throws  his  whole  life  into  a  love 
which  is  hers  to  accept  or  reject.  Although  she  cares  for  none  of  these 
things,  he  can  still  say  "Blest  are  they  who  win  love."] 

ALL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside?     Alas! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?    So ! 
Break  the  string;  fold  music's  wing: 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing ! 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 
This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 
And  speak  my  passion  —  heaven  or  hell  ? 
She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?    'T  is  well ! 
Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  say. 
Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they ! 

Egbert  Brgwning. 


POETRY  177 


YOUTH    AND    ART 

["Youth  and  Art"  is  a  reminiscence  of  Bohemian  days  by  a  singer 
to  a  sculptor.  Before  they  were  famous  they  worked  in  garrets  op- 
posite each  other.  Though  they  have  succeeded  in  their  ailistic 
careers  the  singer  feels  that  their  lives  have  been  incomplete  because 
they  missed  one  another.] 

IT  once  might  have  been,  once  only: 
We  lodged  in  a  street  together. 
You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 

Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 

Y''ou  thumbed,  thrust,  patted,  and  polished, 

Then  laughed  "  They  will  see  some  day, 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled,  and  twittered, 
"  Kate  Brown  's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embittered !  " 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 

Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster; 
You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 

I  needed  a  music-master. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 

For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 

Cap  and  blouse  —  nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too ; 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

And  I  —  soon  mamiged  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 

Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

No  harm  !    It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt., 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up : 

12 


178  SELECTED   READINGS 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 

And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  watercresses. 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 

In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it  ? 
Why  did  I  not  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it? 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 

(And  yet  the  memory  rankles). 
When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up-stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good ! 

"  That  foreign  fellow,  —  who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood. 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano  ?  " 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes. 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

Her  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes  "  ? 

No,  no ;  you  would  not  be  rash. 

Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over: 

You  've  to  settle  yet  Gibson^s  hash, 
And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 

I  'm  queen  myself  at  hals-pares, 
I  've  married  a  rich  old  lord. 

And  you  're  dubbed  knight  and  an  E.A. 

Each  life  unfulfilled,  you  see ; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy: 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free. 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired,  —  been  happy. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

And  people  suppose  me  clever: 
This  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  forever. 

Robert  Browning, 


POETRY  179 


CONFESSIONS 

["Confessions"  is  a  dying  man's  reply  to  a  clergyman's  inquiry: 
Does  he  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  now  that  he  comes  to  die? 
In  fancy  he  roves  through  past  days,  and  is  retracing  the  path  by 
which  he  could  creep  imseen  by  any  eyes  but  hers  to  the  "  rose-v.-reathed 
gate."  The  scene  comes  back  to  him  in  the  arrangement  of  medicine 
bottles  on  a  table  at  his  bedside.  He  admits  that  their  meetings 
were  "sad  and  bad  and  mad.  .  .  .  But  then,  how  it  was  sweet!"] 

WHAT  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears? 
"  Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ?  " 
Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge,  —  is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do. 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden  wall ;  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 

To  mine,  it  senses  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall ; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "  Ether  " 

Is  the  house  o'ertopping  all. 

At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper, 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it 's  improper, 

My  poor  mind 's  out  of  tune. 

Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except: 

They  styled  their  house  "  The  Lodge." 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help,  —  their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Ocs, 


180  SELECTED   READINGS 

Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together. 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "  Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.    Alas, 

We  loved,  sir  —  used  to  meet : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 

Egbert  Browning. 


TIME'S    REVENGES 

["Time's  Revenges"  is  a  confession  made  in  the  form  of  a  soliloquy. 
The  speaker  has  a  man  friend  whose  devotion  will  stand  any  test,  yet 
he  cannot  reciprocate.  The  friend  is  revenged  by  the  fact  that  the 
man  loves  a  woman  for  whom  he  has  given  up  body  and  soul  and 
peace  and  fame;  yet  she  would  see  him  "roast  at  a  slow  fire"  if  it 
would  procure  her  an  invitation  to  a  certain  ball.] 

I'VE  a  Friend,  over  the  sea ; 
I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 
It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write ; 
They  find  such  favor  in  his  sight 
That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 
Because  you  don't  admire  my  books. 
He  does  himself,  though,  —  and  if  some  vein 
Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy  brain, 
To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 
Eound  should  I  just  turn  quietly. 
Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 
Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign  land 
To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place, 
And  make  my  broth  and  wash  my  face 
And  light  my  fire  and,  all  the  while. 
Bear  with  his  old  good-humored  smile 
That  I  told  him  "  Better  have  kept  away 
Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and  day. 
With,  worse  than  fever  throbs  and  shoots. 
The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 
I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do. 
As  that  St.  Paul's  is  striking  two. 
And  I  think  I  rather  .  .  .  woe  is  me  I 
—  Yes,  rather  should  see  him  than  not  see. 
If  lifting  a  hand  could  seat  him  there 


POETRY  181 

Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 
Tonight,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 
And  I  can  neither  think  nor  read, 
Nor  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 
The  pen ;  this  garret 's  freezing  cold ! 

And  I  've  a  Lady  —  there  he  wakes, 

The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 

Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 

Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 

Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 

Upthrust  and  outward-borne, 

So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 

Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be ! 

Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies  quaint. 

And  my  style  infirm,  and  its  figures  faint, 

All  the  critics  say,  and  more  blame  yet, 

And  not  one  angry  word  you  get. 

But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 

Eather  than  trample  under  mine 

The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 

And  you  shall  see  how  the  devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  him  for  other  ends ! 

I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 

This  garret,  crowned  with  Love's  best  crown. 

And  feasted  with  Love's  perfect  feast, 

To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least. 

Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame. 

Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 

—  So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  dull,  eaten  out  and  in 

With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her. 

The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 

Of  shadow  round  her  mouth ;  and  she 

—  I  '11  tell  you  —  calmly  would  decree 
That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire. 

If  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There  may  be  heaven ;  there  must  be  hell ; 
Meantime,  there  is  our  earth  here  —  well  I 

Robert  Browning. 


182  SELECTED   HEADINGS 


PORPHYRIA'S    LOVER 

[A  man  wishes  to  immortalize  the  moment  when  Porphyria,  his 
love,  realized  the  supreme  wish  of  her  life  to  be  completely  his,  and 
so  murders  her.  God  seems  to  justify  the  act,  because  no  inner  voice 
tells  him  it  was  wrong.] 

THE  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 
The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake. 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 

And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake: 
I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 
When  glided  in  Porphyria;  straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm. 
And  kneeled  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm ; 
Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form 
Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 

And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 
Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 

And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 
And  called  me.  When  no  voice  replied. 
She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder  bare 
And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie  there, 
And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair, 
Murmuring  how  she  loved  me  —  she 

Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavor, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever. 
And  give  herself  to  me  forever. 
But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 

N"or  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain : 
So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and  rain. 
Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 

Happy  and  proud ;   at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshipped  me;   surprise 

Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 
While  I  debated  what  to  do. 
That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine,  fair. 

Perfectly  pure  and  good :  I  found 


POETRY  183 

A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  around, 
And  strangled  her.    No  pain  felt  she ; 

I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 
As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 

I  warily  oped  her  lids:   again 
Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 
And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck ;  her  cheek  once  more 
Blushed  bright  beneath  my  burning  kiss: 

I  propped  her  head  up  as  before. 
Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore 
Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still : 

The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 
So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 

That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 
And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead ! 
Porphyria's  love:    she  guessed  not  how 

Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 
And  thus  we  sit  together  now. 

And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirred. 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word ! 

Robert  Browning. 


MY    LAST    DUCHESS 

[Here  we  find  a  jealousy,  a  selfishness  which  exceeds  that  of  Leontes. 
The  Duke  of  Ferrara  is  exhibiting  the  portrait  of  his  first  wife  to  the 
envoy  of  a  nobleman,  whose  daughter  he  purposes  to  marry.  Pie  is 
indignant  because  his  wife  was  promiscuous  in  her  admirations,  and 
did  not  esteem  his  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-year-old  name  above  that 
of  others.  He  has  pride  in  possession,  he  cares  more  for  the  fact  that 
he  has  a  picture  painted  by  Fr^  Pandolf  than  that  it  is  a  faithful 
portrait  of  his  wife.  He  also  boasts  that  he  has  a  bronze  especially  cast 
for  him  by  Claus  of  Innsbruck. 

This  may  be  called  a  perfect  monologue,  telling  as  it  does  a  com- 
plete story  in  fifty-six  lines.] 

THAT  's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fr^  Pandolfs  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
"VTill  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?    I  said 
*'  Fr^  Pandolf  "  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 


184  SELECTED   READINGS  ' 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I ) 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir,  't  was  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "  Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half -blush  that  dies  along  her  throat :  "   such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  Joy.    She  had 

A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed:   she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  ever\'where. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one  !    My  favor  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  west, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men,  —  good !  but  thanked 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.    Who  'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling  ?    Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss. 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

AVhene'er  I  passed  her ;  hwi  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?    This  grew ;  I  gave  commands ; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.    Will 't  please  you  rise  ?    We  '11  meet 

The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat. 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 


POETRY  185 

Of  mine  for  dowiy  will  be  disallowed; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  stai'ting,  is  my  object.    Xay,  we  '11  go 

Together  down,  sir.    jSTotice  Neptune,  though. 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me ! 

EoBEET  Browning. 


GENTLEMEN-RANKERS 

TO  the  legion  of  the  lost  ones,  to  the  cohort  of  the  damned, 
To  my  brethren  in  their  sorrows  overseas. 
Sings   a  gentleman   of   England,   cleanly   bred,   machinely 
crammed, 
And  a  trooper  of  the  Empress,  if  you  please. 
Yea,  a  trooper  of  the  forces  who  has  run  his  own  six  horses, 

And  faith  he  went  the  pace  and  went  it  blind, 
And  the  world  was  more  than  kin  while  he  held  the  ready  tin. 
But  to-day  the  Sergeant 's  something  less  than  kind. 
"We  're  poor  little  lambs  who  've  lost  our  way, 

Baa!    Baa!    Baa! 
We  're  little  black  sheep  who  've  gone  astray, 

Baa-aa-aa ! 
Gentlemen-ranlcers  out  on  the  spree 
Damned  from  here  to  Eternity, 
God  ha'  mercv  on  such  as  we. 
Baa!    Yah!    Bah! 

Oh,  it's  sweet  to  sweat  through  stables,   sweet  to  empty 
kitchen  slops, 

And  it 's  sweet  to  hear  the  tales  the  troopers  tell. 
To  dance  \sath  blowzy  housemaids  at  the  regimental  hops. 

And  thrash  the  cad  who  says  you  waltz  too  well. 
Yes,  it  makes  you  cock-a-hoop  to  be  Eider  to  3^our  troop. 

And  branded  with  a  blasted  woreted  spur. 
When  you  env}^  oh,  how  keenly,  one  poor  Tommy  being 
cleanly 

Who  blacks  your  boots  and  sometimes  calls  you  "  Sir 


j> 


If  the  home  we  never  write  to,  and  the  oaths  we  never  keep, 
And  all  we  know  most  distant  and  most  dear. 

Across  the  snoring  barrack-room  return  to  break  our  sleep. 
Can  you  blame  us  if  we  soak  ourselves  in  beer? 


186  SELECTED   READINGS  i 


When  the  drunken  comrade  mutters  and  the  great  guard- 
lantern  gutters. 
And  the  horror  of  our  fall  is  written  plain, 
Every    secret,    self-revealing    on    the    aching    whitewashed 
ceiling. 
Do  you  wonder  that  we  drug  ourselves  from  pain? 


■( 


We  have  done  with  Hope  and  Honor,  we  are  lost  to  Love  and 
Ti-uth, 
We  are  dropping  down  the  ladder  rung  by  rung, 
And  the  measure  of  our  torment  is  the  measure  of  our  youth, 

God  help  us,  for  we  knew  the  worst  too  young ! 
Our  shame  is  clean  repentance  for  the  crime  that  brought  the 
sentence, 
Our  pride  it  is  to  know  no  spur  of  pride, 
And  the  Curse  of  Eeuben  holds  us  till  an  alien  turf  enfolds  us 
And  we  die,  and  none  can  tell  Them  where  we  died. 
We  're  poor  little  lambs  who  've  lost  our  way. 

Baa!    Baa!    Baa! 
We  're  little  black  sheep  who  've  gone  astray, 

Baa-aa-aa ! 
Gentlemen-rankers  out  on  the  spree. 
Damned  from  here  to  Eternity, 
God  ha'  mercy  on  such  as  we. 
Baa!    Yah!    Bah! 

EUDYARD  KiPLINO. 

CHANT-PAGAN 

ME  that  'ave  been  what  I  've  been, 
Me  that  'ave  gone  where  I  've  gone, 
Me  that  'ave  seen  what  I  've  seen  — 

'Ow  can  I  ever  take  on 
With  awful  old  England  again. 
An  'ouses  both  sides  of  the  lane. 
And  the  parson  an'  gentry  between. 
An'  touchjn'  my  'at  when  we  meet  — 
Me  that  'ave  been  what  I  've  been  ? 

Me  that  'ave  watched  'arf  a  world 

'Eave  up  all  shiny  with  dew. 

Kopje  on  kop  to  the  sun, 

An'  as  soon  as  the  mist  let  'em  through 


POETRY  187 

Our  'elios  wiiilviu'  like  f  uu  — 
Three  sides  oi"  a  niuety-mile  square. 
Over  valleys  as  big  as  a  shire  — 
Are  ye  there  ?    Are  ye  there  ?    Are  ye  there  ? 
An'  then  the  blind  dnmi  of  our  fire  — 
An'  I  'm  rollin'  'is  lawns  for  the  Squire, 

Me! 

Me  that  'ave  rode  through  the  dark 
Forty'  mile  often  on  end, 
Along  the  Ma'ollisberg  Range, 
With  only  the  stars  for  my  mark 
An'  only  the  night  for  my  friend, 
An'  things  runnin'  off  as  you  pass, 
An'  things  jumpin'  up  in  the  grass, 
An'  tiie  silence,  the  shine  an'  the  size 
Of  the  'igh,  inexpressible  skies  — 
I  am  takin'  some  lettei"s  almost 
As  much  as  a  mile,  to  the  post, 
An'  "  mind  you  come  back  with  tlie  change !  " 

Me ! 

Me  that  saw  Barberton  took 

When  we  dropped  through  the  clouds  on  their  'ead 
An'  they  'ove  the  guns  over  an'  fled  — 
Me  that  was  through  Di'mond  '111, 
An'  Pieters  an'  Springs  an'  Belfast  — 
From  Dundee  to  Vereeniging  all ! 
Me  that  stuck  out  to  the  last 
(An'  five  bloomin'  bars  on  my  chest) 
I  am  doin'  my  Sunday-school  best, 
By  the  'elp  of  the  Squire  an'  'is  wife 
(Not  to  mention  the  'ousemaid  an'  cook). 
To  come  in  an'  'ands  up  an'  be  still, 
An'  honestly  work  for  my  bread. 
My  livin'  in  that  state  of  life 
To  which  it  shall  please  God  to  call 

Me! 

Me  that  'ave  followed  my  trade 
In  the  place  where  the  lightnin's  is  made, 
'T\vixt  the  Rains  and  the  Sun  and  the  Moon; 
Me  that  lay  down  an'  got  up 


188  SELECTED   READINGS 

I 

Three  years  an'  the  sky  for  my  roof  —  1 

That  'ave  ridden  my  'unger  an'  thirst  ! 

Six  thousand  raw  mile  on  the  'oof,  j 
With  the  Vaal  and  the  Orange  for  cup, 

An'  the  Brandwater  Basin  for  dish,  —  I 

Oh !    it 's  'ard  to  be'ave  as  they  wish,  J 
(Too  'ard,  an'  a  little  too  soon), 
I  '11  'ave  to  think  over  it  first  — 

Me!  ! 

I 

I  will  arise  an'  get  'ence;  ! 

I  will  trek  South  and  make  sure  , 

If  it 's  only  my  fancy  or  not  ' 

That  the  sunshine  of  England  is  pale,  ! 

And  the  breezes  of  England  are  stale,  ; 

An'  there's  somethin'  gone  small  with  the  lot;  j 
For  I  know  of  a  sun  an'  a  wind, 
An'  some  plains  and  a  moim.tain  be'ind. 

An'  some  graves  by  a  barb-wire  fence ;  ■ 

An'  a  Dutchman  I  've  fought  'oo  might  give  \ 

Me  a  job  were  I  ever  inclined,  i 

To  look  in  an'  ofPsaddle  an'  live  ! 

Wliere  there  's  neither  a  road  nor  a  tree  —  \ 

But  only  my  Maker  an'  me,  } 

An'  I  think  it  will  kill  me  or  cure,  j 
So  I  think  I  will  go  there  an'  see. 

RuDTAED  Kipling. 

MY    RIVAL  i 

I  GO  to  concert,  party,  ball —  j 

What  profit  is  in  these  ?  ■ 

I  sit  alone  against  the  wall  i 

And  strive  to  look  at  ease. 

The  incense  that  is  mine  by  right  | 

They  burn  before  her  shrine ;  j 
And  that 's  because  I  'm  seventeen 

And  she  is  forty-nine,  j 

i 

I  cannot  check  my  girlish  blush,  \ 

My  color  comes  and  goes ; 

I  redden  to  my  finger  tips,  ' 

And  sometimes  to  my  nose.  j 


POETRY  189 

But  she  is  white  where  white  should  be, 

And  red  where  red  should  shine. 
The  blush  that  flies  at  seventeen 

Is  fixed  at  forty-nine. 

I  wish  I  had  her  constant  cheek ; 

I  wish  that  I  could  sing 
All  sorts  of  funny  little  songs, 

Not  quite  the  proper  thing. 
I  'm  very  gauche  and  very  shy, 

Her  jokes  are  n't  in  my  line ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  I  'm  seventeen, 

While  she  is  forty-nine. 

The  young  men  come,  the  young  men  go, 

Each  pink  and  white  and  neat, 
She 's  older  than  their  mothers,  but 

They  grovel  at  her  feet. 
They  walk  beside  her  'rickshaw  wheels  — 

They  never  walk  by  mine ; 
And  that 's  because  I  'm  seventeen. 

And  she  is  forty-nine. 

She  rides  with  half  a  dozen  men 

(She  calls  them  "boys"  and  "mashes") 
I  trot  along  the  Mall  alone ; 

My  prettiest  frocks  and  sashes 
Don't  help  to  fill  my  programme-card. 

And  vainly  I  repine 
From  ten  to  two  a.  m.    Ah  me ! 

Would  I  were  forty-nine. 

She  calls  me  "  darling,"  "  pet,"  and  "  dear," 

And  "  sweet  retiring  maid." 
I  'm  always  at  the  back,  I  know, 

She  puts  me  in  the  shade. 
She  introduces  me  to  men, 

"  Cast "  lovers,  I  opine, 
For  sixty  takes  to  seventeen, 

Nineteen  to  fort}^-nine. 

But  even  she  must  older  grow 

And  end  her  dancing  days. 
She  can't  go  on  for  ever  so 

At  concerts,  balls,  and  plays. 


190  SELECTED   READINGS 

One  ray  of  priceless  hope  I  see 

Before  my  footsteps  shine: 
Just  think,  that  she  ^11  be  eighty-one 

When  I  am  forty-nine ! 

EuDYARD  Kipling. 


BOOTS 

WE  'EE  foot — slog — slog — slog — sloggin'  over  Africa ! 
Foot — foot — foot — sloggin'  over  Africa  — 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again)  ; 
There 's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

Seven — six — eleven — five — nine-an'-twenty  mile  to-day  — 
Four — eleven — seventeen — thirty-two  the  day  before — 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again)  ; 
There  's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

Don't — don't — don't — don't — look  at  what 's  in  front  of  you 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again)  ; 
Men — men — men — men — men — go  mad  with  watchin'  'em. 
An'  there 's  no  discharge  in  the  war. 

Try — tr)^ — try — try  to  think  o'  something  different  — 
Oh — my — God — keep — me  from  goin'  lunatic  ! 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again) ; 
There 's  no  discharge  in  the  war. 

Count — count — count — count — the  bullets  in  the  bandoliers ; 
If — your — eyes — drop — they  will  get  atop  o'  you 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again)  ; 
There 's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

'T  ain't — so — bad — by — day  because  o'  company, 
But  night — brings — long — strings — o'  forty  thousand  million 
(Boots — boots — boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again)  ; 
There 's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

I — 'ave — ^marched — six — weeks  in  'ell  an'  certify 
It — is — not — fire — devils,  dark,  or  anything 
But  boots — boots — ^boots — boots,  movin'  up  an'  down  again, 
An'  there 's  no  discharge  in  the  war ! 

Eddyaed  Kipling. 


POETRY  101 


THE   DREAM-SHIP* 

WHEN  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 
Along  the  midnight  skies  — 
As  though  it  were  a  wandering  cloud  — 
The  ghostly  dream-ship  flies. 

An  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  helm, 

An  angel  stands  at  the  prow, 
And  an  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  side 

With  a  rue-vvTeath  on  her  brow. 

The  other  angels,  silver-crowned, 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
x\nd  the  angel  with  the  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 

The  dreams  they  fall  on  rich  and  poor; 

They  fall  on  young  and  old ; 
And  some  are  dreams  of  poverty. 

And  some  are  dreams  of  gold. 

And  some  are  dreams  that  thrill  with  joy, 

And  some  that  melt  to  tears ; 
Some  are  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  love. 

And  some  of  the  old  dead  vears. 

On  rich  and  poor  alike  they  fall. 

Alike  on  young  and  old, 
Bringing  to  slumbering  earth  their  joys 

And  sorrows  manifold. 

The  friendless  youth  in  them  shall  do 

The  deeds  of  mighty  men. 
And  drooping  age  shall  feel  the  grace 

Of  buoyant  youth  again. 

The  king  shall  be  a  beggarman  — 

The  pauper  be  a  king  — 
In  that  revenge  or  recompense 

The  dream-ship  dreams  do  bring. 

♦  From"  Songs  and  Other  Verse."    Copyright,lSOQ,bi/  Eugene  Field;  publi»h*d 
by  Charles  Scribncr't  Sons, 


192  SELECTED   READINGS 

So  ever  do^vIl^va^d  float  the  dreams 

That  are  for  all  and  me, 
And  there  is  never  mortal  man 

Can  solve  that  m3'Stery. 

But  ever  onward  in  its  course 

Along  the  haunted  skies  — 
As  though  it  were  a  cloud  astray  — 

The  ghostly  dream-sliip  flies. 

Two  angels  with  their  silver  crowns 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
And  an  angel  with  a  wealth  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 

Eugene  Field. 


THE    LIMITATIONS    OF    YOUTH* 

I'D  like  to  be  a  cowboy,  an'  ride  a  fiery  boss 
Way  out  into  the  big  an'  boundless  West; 
I  'd  kill  the  bears  an'  catamounts  an'  wolves  I  come  across,  i 

An'  I  'd  pluck  the  bal'  head  eagle  from  his  nest !  I 

With  my  pistol  at  my  side,  I 

I  would  roam  the  prarers  wide,  •  ! 

An'  to  scalp  the  savage  Injun  in  his  wigwam  would  I  ride  —  ! 
If  I  darst ;   but  I  darse  n't ! 

I  'd  like  to  go  to  Afriky  an'  hunt  the  lions  there,  j 

An'  the  biggest  ollyf unts  you  ever  saw !  ! 

1  would  track  the  fierce  gorilla  to  his  equatorial  lair,  j 

An'  beard  the  cannybull  that  eats  folks  raw !  i 

I  'd  chase  the  pizen  snakes 

An'  the  'pottimus  that  makes  j 

His  nest  doA^oi  at  the  bottom  of  unfathomable  lakes  —  j 

If  I  darst ;  but  I  darse  n't !  ] 

I  would  I  were  a  pinit  to  sail  the  ocean  blue,  i 

With  a  big  black  flag  a-flyin'  overhead ;  i 

I  would  scour  the  billowy  main  with  my  gallant  pirut  crew,  \ 

An'  dye  the  sea  a  gouty,  gory  red !  ! 

*  From  "  Songs  and  Other  Verse."    Copyright, 189Q,  by  Ett^ene  Field;  published  ,. 

by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  | 

! 
j 


POETRY  193 

"With  my  cutlass  in  my  hand 
On  the  quarterdeck  I  'd  stand 
And  to  deeds  of  heroism  I  'd  incite  my  pirut  band  — 
If  I  darst ;  but  I  darse  n't ! 

And,  if  I  darst,  I  'd  lick  my  pa  for  the  times  that  he  's  licked 
me! 

I  'd  lick  my  brother  an'  my  teacher,  too  ! 
I  'd  lick  the  fellers  that  call  round  on  sister  after  tea, 

An'  I  'd  keep  on  lickin'  folks  till  I  got  through ! 

You  bet !    I  'd  run  away 
From  my  lessons  to  my  play. 
An'  I  'd  shoo  the  hens,  an'  tease  the  cat,  an'  kiss  the  girls  all 
day  — 
If  I  darst ;  but  I  darse  n't ! 

Eugene  Field. 


LONG    AGO* 

I  ONCE  knew  all  the  birds  that  came 
And  nested  in  our  orchard  trees; 
For  every  flower  I  had  a  name  — 

My  friends  were  woodchucks,  toads,  and  bees ; 
I  knew  where  thrived  in  yonder  glen 

What  plants  would  soothe  a  stone-bruised  toe  - — 
Oh,  I  was  very  learned  then ; 
But  that  was  very  long  ago ! 

I  knew  the  spot  upon  the  hill 

Where  checkerberries  could  be  found, 
I  knew  the  rushes  near  the  mill 

WTiere  pickerel  lay  that  weighed  a  pound ! 
I  knew  the  wood,  —  the  very  tree 

"VVTiere  lived  the  poaching,  saucy  crow. 
And  all  the  woods  and  crows  knew  me  — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

And  pining  for  the  joys  of  youth, 

I  tread  the  old  familiar  spot 
Only  to  learn  this  solemn  truth : 

I  have  forgotten,  am  forgot. 

*  From"  A  Little  Book  of  Wentern  Verae."    Copj/right,  1889,  by  Eugene  Field; 
publithed  bu  Charles  Scribner'a  Sont, 

13 


194  SELECTED   READINGS 

Yet  here  's  this  youngster  at  my  knee 

Knows  all  the  things  I  used  to  know ; 

To  think  I  once  was  wise  as  he  — 
But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

I  know  it's  folly  to  complain 

Of  whatsoe'er  the  Fates  decree; 
Yet  were  not  wishes  all  in  vain, 

I  tell  you  what  my  wish  should  be : 
I  'd  wish  to  be  a  boy  again, 

Back  with  the  friends  I  used  to  know ; 
For  I  was,  oh !   so  happy  then  — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago ! 


Eugene  Field. 


THE    OLD    MAN    AND    JIM* 

OLD  man  never  had  much  to  say  — 
'Ceptin'  to  Jim, — 
And  Jim  was  the  wildest  boy  he  had  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 
]N"ever  heard  him  speak  but  once 
Er  twice  in  my  life,  —  and  the  first  time  was 
When  the  army  broke  out,  and  Jim  he  went, 
The  old  man  backin'  him,  fer  three  months; 
And  all  'at  I  heerd  the  old  man  say 
Was,  jes'  as  we  turned  to  start  away,  — 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 
'Peared-like,  he  was  more  satisfied 

Jes'  looTcin'  at  Jim 
And  likin'  him  all  to  hisse'f  like,  see  ?  — 

'Cause  he  was  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
And  over  and  over  I  mind  the  day 
The  old  man  come  and  stood  round  in  the  way 
While  we  was  drillin',  a-watchin'  Jim  — 
And  doAvn  at  the  deepot  a-heerin'  him  say, 

"Well,  good-bye,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley's  verse, 
Messrs.  Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 


POETRY  195 

Never  was  nothin'  about  the  farm 

Disting'ished  Jim; 
Neighbors  all  used  to  wonder  why 

The  old  man  'peared  \\Tapped  up  in  him : 
But  when  Cap.  Biggler  he  writ  back 
'At  Jim  was  the  bravest  boy  we  had 
In  the  whole  dem  rigiment,  white  er  black. 
And  his  fightin'  good  as  his  f  armin'  bad  — 
'At  he  had  led,  with  a  bullet  clean 
Bored  through  his  thigh,  and  carried  the  flag 
Through  the  bloodiest  battle  you  ever  seen,  — 
The  old  man  wound  up  a  letter  to  him 
'At  Cap.  read  to  us,  'at  said :  "  Tell  Jim 

Good-bye, 

And  take  keer  of  hisse'f." 

Jim  come  home  jes'  long  enough 

To  take  the  whim 
'At  he  'd  like  to  go  back  in  the  calvery  — 

And  the  old  man  Jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 
Jim  'lowed  'at  he  'd  had  sich  luck  afore, 
Guessed  he  'd  tackle  her  three  years  more. 
And  the  old  man  give  him  a  colt  he  'd  raised. 
And  followed  him  over  to  Camp  Ben  Wade, 
And  laid  around  fer  a  week  or  so, 
Watchin'  Jim  on  dress-parade  — 
Tel  finally  he  rid  away, 
And  last  he  heerd  was  the  old  man  say,  — 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

Tuk  the  papers,  the  old  man  did, 

A-watchin'  fer  Jim  — 
Fully  believin'  he  'd  make  his  mark 

Some  way  —  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him  !  — 
And  many  a  time  the  word  u'd  come 
'At  stirred  him  up  like  the  tap  of  a  dinim  — 
At  Petersburg,  fer  instunce,  where 
Jim  rid  right  into  the  cannons  there, 
And  tuk  'em,  and  p'inted  'em  t'other  way. 
And  socked  it  home  to  the  boys  in  gray, 
As  they  scooted  fer  timber,  and  on  and  on  — 


196  SELECTED   READINGS 

Jim  a  lieutenant  and  one  arm  gone, 

And  the  old  man's  words  in  his  mind  all  day, 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

Think  of  a  private,  now,  perhaps 

We  '11  say  like  Jim, 
'At  "s  dumb  clean  up  to  the  shoulder-straps  — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him! 
Think  of  him  —  with  the  war  plum'  through. 

And  the  glorious  old  Eed-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin'  the  news  down  over  Jim, 
And  the  old  man  bendin'  over  him  — 
The  surgeon  turnin'  away  with  tears 
'At  had  n't  leaked  f  er  yeajs  and  years. 
As  the  hand  of  the  dyin'  boy  clung  to 
His  father's,  the  old  voice  in  his  ears,  — 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  " 

James  Whitcomb  Eiley. 


OUT    TO    OLD    AUNT    MARY'S* 

WAS  N'T  it  pleasant,  0  brother  mine, 
In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 
Of  youth  —  when  the  Saturday's  chores  were  through, 
And  the  "  Sunda/s  wood  "  in  the  kitchen,  too. 
And  we  went  visiting,  "  me  and  you," 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mar/s? 

It  all  comes  back  so  clear  to-day ! 
Though  I  am  as  bald  as  you  are  gray  — 
Out  by  the  bam-lot,  and  down  the  lane. 
We  platter  along  in  the  dust  again. 
As  light  as  the  tips  of  the  drops  of  the  rain. 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's! 

We  cross  the  pasture,  and  through  the  wood 
Where  the  old  gray  snag  of  the  poplar  stood, 

•  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers,  Messrs.  Bohbs-Merrill  Co. 


POETRY  197 

WTiere  the  hammering  red-heads  hopped  awry, 
And  the  buzzard  raised  in  the  clearing  slcy, 
And  lolled  and  circled,  as  we  went  by. 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  then  in  the  dust  of  the  road  again; 
And  the  teams  we  met,  and  the  countrymen; 
And  the  long  highway,  with  sunshine  spread 
As  thick  as  butter  on  country  bread, 
Our  cares  behind,  and  our  hearts  ahead 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

"WTiy,  I  see  her  now  in  the  open  door. 
Where  the  little  gourds  grew  up   the  sides,   and  o'er 
The  clapboard  roof !  —  And  her  face  —  ah,  me ! 
Was  n't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  see  — 
And  was  n't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  be 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's  ? 

•  «••••• 

And  0,  my  brother,  so  far  away, 
This  is  to  tell  you  she  waits  to-day 
To  welcome  us :  —  Aunt  Mary  fell 
Asleep  this  morning,  whispering,  "  Tell 
The  bovs  to  come !  "     And  all  is  well 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Marj^'s. 

James  Whitcomb  Eilet. 

THE  LIFE  LESSON* 

THEEE !  little  girl  don't  cry ! 
They  have  broken  your  doll,  I  know; 
And  your  tea-set  blue. 
And  your  play-house,  too, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago ; 

But  childish  troubles  will  soon  pass  by.  — 
There!  little  girl,  don't  cry! 

There!  little  girl,  don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  slate,  I  know; 

And  the  glad,  wild  ways 

Of  your  school-girl  days 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 

But  life  and  love  will  soon  come  by.  — 

There!  little  girl,  don't  cry! 

♦  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers,  Messrs.  Bobbs-M errill  Co. 


198  SELECTED   READINGS 

There !  little  girl,  don't  cry ! 

They  have  broken  your  heart,  I  know; 

And  the  rainbow  gleams 

Of  your  youthful  dreams 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago ; 

But  Heaven  holds  all  for  which  you  sigh.  — 

There!    little  girl,  don't  cry! 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


JANE    JONES  \ 

JANE  JONES  keeps  a-whisperin'  to  me  all  the  time,  ' 

An'  says :  "  Why  don't  you  make  it  a  rule 
To  study  your  lessons,  an'  work  hard,  an'  learn,  ' 

An'  never  be  absent  from  school? 
Remember  the  story  of  Elihu  Burritt,  j 

How  he  dumb  up  to  the  top; 
Got  all  the  knowledge  'at  he  ever  had 
Down  in  the  blacksmithin'  shop." 
Jane  Jones  she  honestly  said  it  was  so; 
Mebby  he  did  —  I  dunno; 
'Course,  what 's  a-keepin'  me  'way  from  the  top 
Is  not  never  havin'  no  blacksmithin'  shop. 

She  said  'at  Ben  Franklin  was  awfully  poor, 

But  full  o'  ambition  and  brains, 
An'  studied  philosophy  all  'is  hull  life  — 

An'  see  what  he  got  for  his  pains. 
He  brought  electricity  out  of  the  sky 

With  a  kite  an'  the  lightnin'  an'  key, 
So  we're  owin'  him  more  'n  anyone  else 

Fer  all  the  bright  lights  'at  we  see. 
Jane  Jones  she  actually  said  it  was  so. 
Mebby  he  did  —  I  dunno; 
'Course,  what 's  allers  been  hinderin'  me 
Is  not  havin'  any  kite,  lightnin',  or  key. 

Jane  Jones  said  Columbus  was  out  at  the  knees 

When  he  first  thought  up  his  big  scheme; 
An'  all  of  the  Spaniards  an'  Italians,  too, 

They  laughed  an'  just  said  'twas  a  dream; 


POETRY  199  I 

But  Queen  Isabella  she  listened  to  him, 

An'  paw-ned  all  her  jewels  o'  worth,  , 

An'  bought  'im  the  Santa  Marier  'n  said:  i 

"  Go  hunt  up  the  rest  of  the  earth."  j 

Jane  Jones  she  honestly  said  it  was  so ;  | 

Mebby  he  did  —  I  dunno ; 
'Course,  that  may  all  be,  but  you  must  allow 
They  ain't  any  land  to  discover  just  now, 

Ben  King.  i 

SHE    DOES   NOT   HEAR 

SH-SH-SH-SH-SHE  does  not  hear  the  r-r-r-r-robin  sing,  : 

Xor  f-f-f-f-feel  the  b-b-b-b-balmy  b-b-breath  of  Spring; 
Sh-sh-sh-she  does  not  hear  the  p-p-pelting  rain 
B-b-b-beat  ta-ta-tat-t-t-toos  on  the  w-w-winder  p-p-pane.  i 

Sh-sh-sh-she  cuc-cuc-cannot  see  the  Autimin  s-s-sky. 
Nor  hear  the  wild  geese  s-s-s-stringing  b-b-by;  I 

And,  oh !  how  happy  't-t-t-'tis  to  know  | 

Sh-sh-she  never  f-f-f eels  an  earthly  woe ! 

I  s-s-spoke  to  her;  sh-sh-she  would  not  speak. 

I  kuk-kuk-kissed  her,  but  c-c-cold  was  her  cheek.  I 

I  could  not  twine  her  w-w-w-wondrous  hair —  j 

It  w-w-was  so  wonderf-f-f-fully  rare, 

B-b-beside  her  s-s-stands  a  v-v-v-vase  of  flowers, 

A  gilded  cuc-cuc-cuc-clock  that  t-t-tells  the  hours;  ,, 

And  even  now  the  f-f -fire-light  f-f-f-falls 

On  her,  and  d-d-dances  on  the  walls. 

Sh-sh-she  's  living  in  a  p-p-pup-purer  life,  ' 

Where  there 's  no  tu-tuh-turmoil  or  no  strife ; 

No  t-t-t-tongue  can  m-m-m-mock,  no  words  embarrass 

Her  b-b-b-b-by  g-g-gosh  !  she  's  p-p-plaster  Paris  ! 

Ben  King.  i 

I 
IF   I   CAN    BE    BY   HER 

ID-D-DON'T  c-c-c-are  how  the  r-r-r-obin  sings,  ] 

Er  how  the  r-r-r-ooster  f-f-flaps  his  wings,  | 
Er  whether  't  sh-ph-shines,  er  whether  it  pours, 

Er  how  high  up  the  eagle  s-a-soars,  ' 

If  I  can  b-b-b-be  by  her.  , 


200  SELECTED   READINGS 

I  don't  care  if  the  p-p-p-people  s-say, 
'At  I  'm  weak-minded  every-w-way, 
An'  n-n-never  had  no  cuh-common  sense, 
I  'd  e-c-c-cug-climb  the  highest  p-picket  fence 
If  I  could  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

If  I  can  be  by  h-h-her,  I  '11  s-s-swim 
The   r-r-r-est   of   life   thro'    th-th-thick   an'    thin; 
I  '11  throw  my  overcoat  away, 
An'  s-s-s-stand  out  on  the  c-c-c-oldest  day, 
If  I  can  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

You  s-s-see  sh-sh-she  weighs  an  awful  pile, 
B-b-b-but  I  d-d-d-don't  care  —  sh-she  's  just  my  style, 
An'  any  f-f-fool  could  p-p-p-lainly  see 
She  'd  look  well  b-b-b-by  the  side  of  me. 
If  I  could  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

I  b-b-b-braced  right  up,  and  had  the  s-s-s-and 
To  ask  'er  f-f-f-father  f-f-fer  'er  hand; 
He  said:    " T\ni-wh-what  p-p-prospects  have  you  got?" 
I  said :  "  I  gu-gu-guess  I  've  got  a  lot, 
If  I  can  b-b-b-be  by  her." 

It 's  all  arranged  f-f-fer  Christmas  Day, 
Per  then  we  're  goin'  to  r-r-r-run  away. 
An'  then  s-s-some  th-th-thing  that  cu-cu-could  n't  be 
At  all  b-b-b-efore  will  then,  you  s-s-see, 
B-b-b-because  I  '11  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

Ben  King. 


BUT   THEN 

JOHN  OSWALD  McGUFFIN"  he  wanted  to  die 
'Nd  bring  his  career  to  an  end; 
0' course,  well  —  he  didn't  say  nothin'  to  me — ■ 

But  that 's  what  he  told  every  friend. 
So  one  afternoon  he  went  down  to  the  pier, 
'Nd  folks  saw  him  actin'  most  terribly  queer; 
He  prayed  'nd  he  sung,  put  his  hand  up  to  cough 
'An  every  one  thought  he  was  goin'  to  jump  off  — 


POETRY  201 

But  he  did  n't. 

He  may  jump  to-morrer 

Mornin'  at  ten  — 

Said  he  was  goin'  to 

Try  it  again. 

But  then  — 

John  Oswald  he  said  he  was  tired  of  the  earth  — 

Of  its  turmoil  and  struggle  and  strife, 
'Nd  he  made  up  his  mind  a  long  time  ago 

He  was  just  bound  to  take  his  own  life; 
'N"d  the  very  next  time  'at  he  started  to  shave. 
Determined  to  die,  he  was  goin'  t'  be  brave; 
So  he  stood  up  'nd  flourished  the  knife  in  despair, 
'Nd  every  one  thought  'at  he  'd  kill  himself  there  — 

But  he  did  n't. 

He  says  'at  to-morrer 

Mornin'  at  ten 

He  has  a  notion  to 

Try  it  again. 

But  then  — 

He  went  and  bought  arsenic,  bought  Paris  green, 

'Nd  cobalt  'nd  all  kinds  of  stuff 
'Nd  he  took  great  delight  in  leaving  it  'round  — 

Of  course  that  was  done  for  a  bluff. 
Then  he  rigged  up  his  room  with  a  horrible  thing, 
That  would  blow  his  head  off  by  pullin'  a  string. 
Folks  heard  the  explosion  —  rushed  up  —  on  his  bed 
John  Oswald  was  lyin'.    They  whispered,  "He 's  dead" — ■ 

But  he  was  n't. 

He  riz  up  an'  said: 

He  could  n't  say  when 

He  'd  fully  decide  to 

Try  it  again. 

But  then  — 

Ben  King. 

ACCOUNTABILITY  * 

FOLKS  ain't  got  no  right  to  censuah  othah  folks  about 
dey  habits ; 
Him  dat  giv'  de  squir'ls  de  bushtails  made  de  bobtails  fu' 
de  rabbits. 

♦  Copyrighted  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Corrvpany.     Used  by  permission. 


202  SELECTED   READINGS 

Him  dat  built  de  great  big  mountains  hollered  out  de  little 

valleys, 
Him  dat  made  de  streets  an'  driveways  wasn't  shamed  to 

make  de  alleys. 

"We  is  all  constructed  diff'ent,  d'  ain't  no  two  of  us  de  same ; 
We  cain't  he'p  ouah  likes  an'  dislikes,  ef  we  'se  bad  we  ain't 

to  blame. 
Ef  we  'se  good,  we  need  n't  show  off,  case  you  bet  it  ain't 

ouah  doin' 
We  gits  into  suttain  channels  dat  we  Jes'  cain't  he'p  pu'suin'. 

But  we  all  fits  into  places  dat  no  othah  ones  could  fill, 
An'  we  does  the  things  we  has  to,  big  er  little,  good  er  ill. 
John  cain't  tek  de  place  o'  Henry,  Su  an'  Sally  ain't  alike; 
Bass  ain't  nuthin'  like  a  suckah,  chub  ain't  nuthin'  like  a 
pike. 

When  you  come  to  think  about  it,  how  it 's  all  planned  out 

it 's  splendid. 
Xuthin's  done  er  evah  happens,  'dout  hit's  somefin'  dat's 

intended ; 
Don't  keer  whut  you  does,  you  has  to,  an'  hit  sholy  beats  de 

dickens,  — 
Yiney,  go  put  on  de  kittle,  I  got  one  o'  mastah's  chickens. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


WHEN    MALINDY    SINGS* 

G'  WAY  an'  quit  dat  noise,  Miss  Lucy  — 
Put  dat  music  book  away; 
What  'd  de  use  to  keep  on  tryin'  ? 

Ef  you  practise  twell  you  're  gray. 
You  cain't  sta't  no  notes  a-flyin' 

Lak  de  ones  dat  rants  and  rings 
F'om  de  kitchen  to  de  big  woods 
When  Malindy  sings. 

You  ain't  got  de  nachel  o'gans 

Fu'  to  m.ake  de  soun'  come  right. 

You  ain't  got  de  tu'ns  an'  twistin's 
Fu  to  make  it  sweet  an'  light. 

*  Copyrighted  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company.     Used  by  permission. 


POETRY  203 

Tell  3'ou  one  thing  now,  Miss  Lucy, 

An'  I  'm  tellin'  you  fu'  true. 
When  hit  comes  to  raal  right  singin', 

'Tain't  no  easy  thing  to  do. 

Easy  'nough  fu'  folks  to  hollah, 

Lookin'  at  de  lines  an'  dots. 
When  dey  ain't  no  one  kin  sense  it. 

An'  de  chune  comes  in,  in  spots; 
But  fu'  real  melojous  music, 

Dat  jes'  strikes  yo'  hea't  and  clings, 
Jes'  you  stan'  an'  listen  wif  me 

When  Malindy  sings. 

Ain't  you  nevah  hyeah'd  Malindy? 

Blessed  soul,  tek  up  de  cross ! 
Look  hyeah,   ain't  you   jokin',   honey? 

Well,  you  don't  know  whut  you  los'. 
Y'  ought  to  hyeah  dat  gal  a-wa'blin', 

Eobins,  la'ks,  an'  all  dem  things, 
Hush  dey  moufs  an'  hides  dey  faces 

When  Malindy  sings. 

Fiddlin'  man  jes'  stop  his  fiddlin'. 

Lay  his  fiddle  on  de  she'f ; 
Mockin'-bird  quit  tryin'  to  whistle, 

'Cause  he  jes'  so  shamed  hisse'f. 
Folks  a-playin'  on  de  banjo 

Draps  dey  fingahs  on  de  strings  — 
Bless  yo'  soul  —  f u'gits  to  move  'em, 

WTien  Malindy  sings. 

She  jes'  spreads  huh  mouf  and  hollahs, 

"  Come  to  Jesus,"  twell  you  hyeah 
Sinnahs'  tremblin'  steps  and  voices, 

Timid-lak  a-drawin'  neah ; 
Den  she  tu'ns  to  "  Rock  of  Ages," 

Simply  to  de  cross  she  clings. 
An'  you  fin'  yo'  teahs  a-drappin' 

When  Malindy  sings. 

Who  dat  says  dat  humble  praises 

Wif  de  ]\Iaster  ncvah  counts? 
Hush  yo'  mouf,  I  hyeah  dat  music, 

Ez  hit  rises  up  an'  mounts  — 


204  SELECTED   READINGS 

Floatin'  by  de  hills  an'  valleys. 

Way  above  dis  buryin'  sod, 
Ez  hit  makes  its  way  in  glory 

To  de  very  gates  of  God! 

Oh,  hit 's  SAveetah  dan  de  music 

Of  an  edicated  band; 
An'  hit 's  dearah  dan  de  battle's 

Song  of  triumph  in  de  Ian'. 
It  seems  holier  dan  evenin' 

When  de  solemn  chu'ch  bell  rings, 
Ez  I  sit  an'  ca'mly  listen 

While  Malindy  sings. 

Towsah,  stop  dat  ba'kin',  hyeah  me! 

Mandy,  mek  dat  chile  keep  still; 
Don't  you  hyeah  de  echoes  callin' 

F'om  de  valley  to  de  hill? 
Let  me  listen,  I  can  hyeah  it, 

Th'oo  de  bresh  of  angels'  wings, 
Sof  an'  sweet,  "  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot," 

Ez  Malindy  sings. 

Paul  Laurkntce  Dunbar. 


ANGELINA  * 

WHEN  de  fiddle  gits  to  singin'  out  a  ol'  Vahginny  reel, 
An'  you  'mence  to  feel  a  ticklin'  in  yo'  toe  an'  in 

5^0'  heel; 
Ef  you  t'ink  you  got  'uligion  an'  you  wants  to  keep  it,  too, 
You  jes'  bettah  tek  a  hint  an'  git  yo'self  clean  out  0'  view. 
Case  de  time  is  mighty  temptin'  when  de  chune  is  in  de 

swing 
Fu'  a  darky,  saint  or  sinner  man,  to  cut  de  pigeon-wing. 
An'  you  could  n't  he'p  f'om  dancin'  ef  yo'  feet  was  boun' 

wif  twine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  dovm.  de  line. 

Don't  you  know  Miss  Angelina?     She's  de  da'lin  of  de 

place. 
W'y,  de  ain't  no  high-toned  lady  wif  sich  mannahs  and  sich 


grace. 


Copyrighted  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company.     Used  by  permission. 


POETRY  205 

She  kin  move  across  de  cabin,  wif  its  planks  all  rough  an'  wo', 
Jes'  de  same  's  ef  she  was  dancin'  on  ol'  mistus'  ball-room  flo'. 
Fact  is,  you  do'  see  no  cabin  —  evaht'ing  you  see  look  grand. 
An'  dat  one  ol'  squeaky  fiddle  soun'  to  you  jes'  lak  a  ban'; 
Cotton  britches  look  lak  broadclof  an'  a  linsey  dress  look 

fine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Some  folks  say  dat  dancin'  's  sinful,  an'  de  blessed  Lawd, 

dey  say, 
Gwine  to  punish  us  fu'  steppin'  w'en  we  hyeah  de  music 

play. 
But  I  tell  you  I  don't  b'lieve  it,  fu'  de  Lawd  is  wise  an'  good, 
An'  he  made  de  banjo's  metal  an'  he  made  de  fiddle's  wood, 
An'  he  made  de  music  in  dem,  so  I  don'  quite  t'ink  he  '11 

keer 
Ef  our  feet  keep  time  a  little  to  de  melodies  we  hyeah, 
Wy,  dey's  somep'n'  downright  holy  in  de  way  our  faces 

shine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Angelina  st^ps  so  gentle,  Angelina  bows  so  low, 

An'  she  lif  huh  sku't  so  dainty  dat  huh  shoetop  skacely 

show: 
An'  dem  teef  o'  huh'n  a-shinin',  ez  she  tek  you  by  de  han'  — 
Go  'way,  people,  d'ain't  anothah  sich  a  lady  in  de  Ian' ! 
WTien  she  's  movin'  thoo  de  figgers  er  a-dancin'  by  huhse'f. 
Folks  jes'  stan'  stock-still  a-sta'in',  an'  dey  mos'  nigh  hols' 

dey  bref; 
An'  de  young  mens,  dey 's  a-sayin',  "  I  'e  gwine  mek  dat 

damsel  mine," 
When  Angelina  Jolinson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


IN    THE    MORNIN'* 

LIAS  !    'Lias !    Bless  de  Lawd ! 
Don't  you  know  de  day's  erbroad? 
If  you  don'  git  up,  you  scamp, 
'Dey'll  be  trouble  in  dis  camp. 

CopyrighUd  by  Dodd,  Mead  cfc  Company.    Used  by  permiesion. 


206  SELECTED   READINGS 

T'ink  I  gwine  to  let  you  sleep 
Wile  I  maks  yo'  boa'd  an'  keep? 
Dat  's  a  putty  howdy-do. 
Don'  you  hyeah  me,  'Lias  —  you  ? 

Bet  ef  I  come  'crost  dis  flo' 
You  won't  find  no  time  to  sno'. 
Daylight  all  a-shinin'  in 
Wile  you  sleep  —  w'y  hit 's  a  sin ! 
Ain't  de  can'le  light  enough 
To  bu'n  out  widout  a  snuff, 
But  you  go  de  mo'nin'  thoo 
Bu'nin'  up  de  daylight  too? 

'Lias !    Don'  you  hyeah  me  call  ? 
No  use  tu'nin'  to'ds  de  wall, 
I  kin  hyeah  dat  mattuss  squeak; 
Don'  you  hyeah  me  w'en  I  speak? 
Dis  hyeah  clock  done  struck  off  six  — 
Car'line,  bring  me  dem  ah  sticks. 
Oh,  you  down,  suh;  huh!  you  down  — 
Look  hyeah  —  don'  you  daih  to  frown. 

Ma'ch  yo'se'f  an'  wash  yo'  face; 
Don'  you  splattah  all  de  place; 
I  got  somep'n  else  to  do 
'Sides  jes'  cleanin'  afteh  you. 
Tek  dat  comb  an'  fix  yo'  haid  — 
Looks  jes'  lak  a  feddah  baid. 
Look  hyeah,  boy !    I  let  you  see. 
You  sha'n't  roll  yo'  eyes  at  me. 

Come  hyeah;  bring  me  dat  ah  strap! 
Boy!     I'll  whup  you  'twell  you  drap; 
You  done  felt  yo'se'f  too  strong; 
An'  you  sholy  got  me  wrong. 
Set  down  at  dat  table,  thaih ; 
Jes'  you  whimpah  ef  you  daih! 
Evah  mo'nin'  on  dis  place 
Seem  lak  I  mus'  lose  my  grace. 

FoF  yo'  ban's  an'  bow  yo'  haid  — 
Wait  until  de  blessin'  's  said ; 
"  Lawd  have  mussy  on  ouah  souls  " 
(Don'  you  daih  to  tech  dem  rolls — ) 


POETRY  207 

"  Bless  de  food  we  'se  gwine  to  eat " 
(You  set  still,  I  see  yo'  feet; 
You  jes'  try  dat  trick  agin!) 
"  Gin  us  peace  an'  joy.     Amen !  " 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  * 

WHO  dat  knockin'  at  de  do'? 
Why,  Ike  Johnson,  —  yes,  fu'  sho' ! 
Come  in,   Ike.     I 's  mightly  glad 
You  come  down.     I  fought  you 's  mad 
At  me  'bout  de  othah  night, 
An'  was  stayin'  way  fu  spite. 
Say,  now,  was  you  mad  fu'  true 
Wen  I  kin'  o'  laughed  at  you? 

Speak   up,   Ike,   an'   'spress   yo'se'f. 

'Tain't  no  use  a-lookin'  sad. 

An'  a-mekin'  out  you  's  mad ; 

Ef  you  's  gwine  to  be  so  glum, 

Wondah  why  you  evah  come. 

I  don't  lak  nobidy  'roun' 

Dat  jes'  shet  dey  mouf  an'  frown, — 

Oh,  now,  man,  don't  act  a  dunce ! 

Cain't  you  talk  ?    I  tol'  you  once, 

Speak   up,    Ike,    an'   'spress   yo'se'f. 

Wha'd  you  come  hyeah  fu'   to-night? 
Body  'd  t'ink  yo'  haid  ain't  right. 
I 's  done  all  dat  I  kin  do,  — 
Dressed  perticler,  jes'  fu'  you; 
Eeckon  I  'd  'a'  bettah  wo' 
My  ol'  ragged  calico. 
Aftah  all  de  pains  I 's  took, 
Can't  you  tell  me  how  I  look? 

Speak   up,    Ike,   an'   'spress   yo'se'f. 

Bless  my  soul !     I  'mos'  f u'got 
Tcllin'  you  'bout  Tildy  Scott. 
Don't  you  know,  come  Thu'sday  night, 
She  gwine  ma'y  Lucius  White? 

♦  Copyrighted  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company.     Used  by  permission. 


208  SELECTED   READINGS 

Miss  Lize  say  I  alius  wuh 
Heap  sight  laklier  'n  huh; 

An'  she  '11  git  me  soniep'n  new,  i 

Ef  I  wants  to  ma'y  too.  j 

Speak  up,   Ike,   an'   'spress  yo'se'f. 

I  could  ma'y  in  a  week, 
Ef  de  man  I  wants  'ud  speak. 
Tildy's  presents  '11  be  fine, 
But  dey  would  n't  ekal  mine. 
Him  whut  gits  me  fu'  a  wife 
'LI  be  proud,  you  bet  yo'  life. 
I 's  had  offers ;   some  ain't  quit ; 
But  I  has  n't  ma'ied  yit ! 

Speak   up,   Ike,   an'   'spress   yo'se'f. 

Ike,  I  loves  you,  —  yes,  I  does ; 
You  's  my  choice,  and  alius  was. 
Laffin'  at  you  ain't  no  harm.  — 
Go  'way,  dahky,  whah  's  yo'  arm  ? 
Hug  me  closer  —  dah,  dat  's  right ! 
Was  n't  you  a  awful  sight, 
Havin'  me  to  baig  you  so? 
Now  ax  whut  you  want  to  know,  — 

Speak  up,   Ike,   an'   'spress   yo'se'f. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


A    COQUETTE    CONQUERED* 

YES,  my  ha't  's  ez  ha'd  ez  stone  — 
Go  'way,  Sam,  an'  lemme  'lone. 
No ;  I  ain't  gwine  to  change  my  min'  — 
Ain't  gwine  ma'y  you  —  nuffin'  de  kin'. 

Phiny  loves  you  true  an'  deah? 
Go  ma'y  Phiny;  whut  I  keer? 
Oh,  you  needn't  mou'n  an'  cry  — 
I  don't  keer  how  soon  you  die. 

Got  a  present!    Whut  you  got? 
Somef'n  fu'  de  pan  er  pot! 
Huh !  yo'  sass  do  sholy  beat  — 
Think  I  don't  git  'nough  to  eat? 

•  Copyrighted  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company,    Uaed  by  permiaBion, 


POETRY  209 

Whut's  dat  underneaf  yo'  coat? 
Looks  des  lak  a  little  shoat. 
'Tain't  no  possum !     Bless  de  Lamb  ! 
Yes,  it  is,  you  rascal,  Sam ! 

Gin  it  to  me;  whut  you  say? 

Ain't  you  sma't  now !     Oh,  go  'way ! 

Possum  do  look  mighty  nice. 

But  you  ax  too  big  a  price. 

Tell  me,  is  you  talkin'  true, 

Dat's  de  gal's  whut  ma'ies  you? 

Come  back,  Sam;   now  whah's  you  gwine? 

Co'se  you  knows  dat  possum 's  mine ! 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 


THE    TIGER    LILY* 

From  "Como" 

THE  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags  as  half  asleep, 
ISTor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 
The  walls  are  steep. 
The  waves  are  deep ; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Vthj,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drowned  ? 

The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  of  broken  moon 
Just  newly  set  within  the  cloven  earth; 
The  ripened  fields  drew  round  a  golden  girth 
Far  up  the  steeps,  and  glittered  in  the  noon; 
And,  when  the  sun  fell  down,  from  leafy  shore 
Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar; 
The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  flecked  the  blue; 
From  out  the  Alps  the  moon  came  wheeling  through 
The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 

A  gala  night  it  was,  —  the  season's  prime. 
"We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town, 
To  fair  Milan  —  my  friend  and  I;  roflo  down 
By  night,  where  grasses  waved  in  rippled  rhyme: 
And  so,  what  theme  but  love  at  such  a  time? 

*  By  permiaaion  of  the  author. 

14 


210  ,  SELECTED   READINGS 

His  proud  lip  curl'd  the  while  with  silent  scorn 
At  thought  of  love;  and  then,  as  one  forlorn, 
He  sighed;  then  bared  his  temples,  dash'd  with  gray; 
Then  mocked,  as  one  outworn  and  well  blase. 

A  gorgeous  tiger  lily,  flaming  red,  — 

So  full  of  battle,  of  the  trumpet's  blare, 

Of  old-time  passion,  —  uprear'd  its  head. 

I  gallop'd  past.     I  lean'd,  I  clutch'd  it  there 

From  out  the  stormy  grass.    I  held  it  high, 

Ajid  cried :  "  Lo !   this  to-night  shall  deck  her  hair 

Through  all  the  dance.    And  mark !  the  man  shall  die 

Who  dares  assault,  for  good  or  ill  design, 

The  citadel  where  I  shall  set  this  sign." 

•  ••••* 

He  spoke  no  spare  word  all  the  after  while. 
That  scornful,  cold,  contemptuous  smile  of  his! 

Then  in  the  hall  the  same  old,  hateful  smile! 
Why,  better  men  have  died  for  less  than  this. 
Then  marvel  not  that  when  she  graced  the  floor, 

•  •••>• 

The  fairest  wore  within  her  midnight  hair 

My  tiger  lily,  —  marvel  not,  I  say, 

That  he  glared  like  some  wild  beast  well  at  bay. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Her  presence,  it  was  majesty  —  so  tall ; 
Her  proud  development  encompassed  all. 
She  filled  all  space.     I  sought,  I  saw  but  her: 
I  followed  as  some  fervid  worshipper. 

Adown  the  dance  she  moved  with  matchless  grace. 

The  world  —  my  world  —  moved  with  her.    Suddenly 

I  questioned  who  her  cavalier  might  be. 

'T  was  he !     His  face  was  leaning  to  her  face ! 

I  clutch'd  my  blade ;  I  sprang ;  I  caught  my  breath,  — 

And  so,  stood  leaning  cold  and  still  as  death. 

And  they  stood  still.    She  blushed,  then  reached  and  tore 

The  lily  as  she  passed,  and  down  the  floor 

She  strewed  its  heart  like  jets  of  gushing  gore.  .  .  . 

'Twas  he  said  heads,  not  hearts,  were  made  to  break: 
He  taught  me  this  that  night  in  splendid  scorn. 
I  learned  too  well.  .  .  .  The  dance  was  done.    Ere  mom 
We  mounted  —  he  and  I  —  but  no  more  spake.  .  .  . 


POETRY  211 

And  this  for  woman's  love!     My  lily  worn 

In  her  dark  hair  in  pride,  to  then  be  torn 

And  trampled  on,  for  this  bold  stranger's  sake!   .    .    . 

Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake; 

Two  men  rode  silent  down  —  but  only  one 

Eode  up  at  mom  to  meet  the  rising  run. 

The  walls  are  steep; 

The  crags  shall  keep 
Their  everlasting  watch  profound. 

The  walls  are  steep; 

The  waves  are  deep; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  red-clad  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drowned? 

Joaquin  Miller. 
Adapted  by  Anna  Morgan. 

THE    BRAVEST    BATTLE* 

THE  bravest  battle  that  ever  was  fought ! 
Shall  I  tell  you  where  and  when? 
On  the  maps  of  the  world  you  will  find  it  not. 
It  was   fought  by  the  mothers  of  men. 

Nay,  not  with  cannon  or  battle  shot, 

With  sword,  or  nobler  pen; 
Nay,  not  with  eloquent  word  or  thought, 

From  the  mouths  of  wonderful  men. 

But  deep  in  a  walled-up  woman's  heart  — 

Of  woman  that  would  not  yield. 
But  patiently,  silently  bore  her  part  — 

Lo !  there  is  the  battlefield. 

No  marshalling  troop,  no  bivouac  song. 

No  banner  to  gleam  and  wave; 
And  oh!  these  battles  they  last  so  long  — 

From  babyhood  to  the  grave ! 

Yet,  faithful  still  as  a  bridge  of  stars. 
She  fights  in  her  walled-up  town  — 

Fights  on  and  on  in  the  endless  wars; 
Then,  silent,  unseen,  goes  down. 

♦  By  permission  of  the  author. 


212  SELECTED   READINGS 

0  ye  with  banners  and  battle  shot, 

And  soldiers  to  shout  and  praise, 

1  tell  you  the  kingliest  victories  fought 

Are  fought  in  these  silent  ways. 

0  spotless  woman  in  a  world  of  shame! 

With  splendid  and  silent  scorn, 
Go  back  to  God  as  white  as  you  came. 


The  kingliest  warrior  born. 


Joaquin  Miller. 


THE    FOOL'S    PRAYER* 

THE  royal  feast  was  done;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care. 
And  to  his  Jester  cried :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer ! " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells. 

And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 

Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 

His  pleading  voice  arose :    "  0  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  No  pity.  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 

From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool : 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin ;  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  'T  is  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 

Of  truth  and  right,  0  Lord,  we  stay; 

'T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 

These  hard  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co. 


POETRY  213 

"  The  ill-timed  truth  we  miglit  have  kept  — 

Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 

Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung? 

''  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  Heaven  we  fall. 

"  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will;  but  Thou,  0  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

The  room  was  hushed;   in  silence  rose 

The  King,  and  sought  liis  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 


OPPORTUNITY  * 

TITTS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream :  — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.     A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears  — •  but  this 
Blunt  thing  — !  "  he  snapped  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 
And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword. 

Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand. 

And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle  shout 

Lifted  afresh,  he  hewed  his  enemy  down. 

And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 

Edward  Rowland  Sill. 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Jt  Co. 


214  SELECTED   READINGS  I 

i 
OPPORTUNITY  : 

1 

MASTEE  of  human   destinies  am  I!  i 

Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait. 
Cities  and  fields  I  walk ;  I  penetrate 
Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 
Hovel  and  mart  and  palace  —  soon  or  late  ; 

I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate!  | 

"  If  sleeping,  wake  —  if  feasting,  rise  before  i 
I  turn  away.     It  is  the  hour  of  fate. 

And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state  ' 

Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe  > 
Save  death;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 

Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe,  | 

Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore.  j 

I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more ! "  j 

John  James  Ingalls.  i 


"SWEET-THING"   JANE 

WHEN  somebody  comes  a-tripping  down. 
The  winds  all  at  play  with  her  hair  and  gown; 
The  very  same  winds  that  are  just  too  lazy 
To  lift  a  leaf  or  swing  a  daisy,  — 
Then  hold  your  heart  with  might  and  main; 
She  is  crossing  the  meadow,  "  Sweet-Thing  "  Jane. 

She  always  chooses  the  cool  of  the  day, 

The  way  down  to  Lovetown,  that 's  her  way ; 

She  knows  very  well  (what  is  well  worth  knowing) 

There 's  only  one  road  —  the  road  she  is  going ; 

And  she  knows  she  is  sweet  as  a  rose  in  the  rain. 

And  she  knows  —  she  will  tell  you  —  "  Sweet-Thing  "  Jane. 

A  light  will  burn  in  the  blue  of  her  eye. 

Like  the  star  lit  first  in  the  evening  sky ; 

And  over  her  lips  will  bubble  the  laughter 

The  brooks  in  the  sun  go  running  after; 

You  will  see,  you  will  hear,  at  the  gate  in  the  lane. 

While  slowly  it  opens  to  "  Sweet-Thing  "  Jane. 


POETRY  215 

You  will  open  it  wide,  then  what  will  you  do? 

Why,  you  will  be  oif  for  Lovetown  too. 

The  cool  of  the  day  is  your  lovers'  weather, 

And  all  go  to  Lovetown  two  together. 

Y'ou  may  hold  your  heart  with  might  and  main. 

She  will  have  it  at  last,  will  "  Sweet-Thing  "  Jane. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


THE   HAPPIEST   HEART 

WHO   drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 
Shall  lord  it  but  a  day; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done, 
And  keep  the  humble  way. 

The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame, 

The  dust  will  hide  the  crown; 
Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 

Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 

The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Was  in  some  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet, 

And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


EL    CAMINO   REAL 

ALL  in  the  golden  weather,  forth  let  us  ride  to-day, 
You  and  I  together  on  the  King's  Highway, 
The  blue  skies  above  us,  and  below  the  shining  sea; 
There 's  many  a  road  to  travel,  but  it 's  this  road  for  me. 

It's  a  long  road  and  sunny,  and  the  fairest  in  the  world. 
There  are  peaks  that  rise  above  it  in  their  snowy  mantles 

curled. 
And  it  leads  from  the    mountains    through    a    hedge    of 

charparral, 
Down  to  the  waters  where  the  sea  gulls  call. 

It 's  a  long  road  and  sunny,  it 's  a  long  road  and  old, 
And  the  brown  padres  made  it  for  the  flocks  of  the  fold; 
They  made  it  for  the  sandals  of  the  sinner-folk  that  trod 
From  the  fields  in  the  open  to  the  shelter-house  of  God. 


216  SELECTED   READINGS 

They  made  it  for  the  sandals  of  the  sinner-folk  of  old; 
Now  the  flocks  they  are  scattered  and  death  keeps  the  fold; 
But  you  and  I  together  we  will  take  the  road  to-day, 
With  the  breath  in  our  nostrils,  on  the  King's  Highway. 

We  will  take  the  road  together  through  the  morning's  golden 

glow, 
And  we  '11  dream  of  those  who  trod  it  in  the  mellowed  long 

ago ; 
We  will  stop  at  the  missions  where  the  sleeping  padres  lay. 
And  we  '11  bend  a  knee  above  them  for  their  souls'  sake  to 

pray. 

We'll  ride  through  the  valleys  where  the  blossom's  on  the 

tree. 
Through  the  orchards  and  the  meadows  with  the  bird  and 

the  bee, 
And  we  '11  take  the  rising  hills  where  the  manzanitas  grow, 
Past  the  gray  trails  of  waterfalls  where  blue  violets  blow. 

Old  Conquistadores,  0  brown  priests,  and  all. 
Give  us  your  ghosts  for  company  when  night  begins  to  fall ; 
There 's  many  a  road  to  travel,  laut  it 's  this  road  to-day. 
With  the  breath  of  God  about  us  on  the  King's  Highway. 

John  S.  M'Groaety. 

A    THEME* 

"/^  IVE  me  a  theme,"  the  little  poet  cried, 

\J"      "  And  I  will  do  my  part." 
"  'T  is  not  a  theme  you  need,"  the  world  replied, 
"  You  need  a  heart." 

EiCHARD  Watson  Gilder. 

THE    TWO    MYSTERIES! 

WE  know  not  what  it  is,  dear,  this  sleep  so  deep  and 
still; 
The  folded  hands,  the  awful  calm,  the  cheek  so  pale  and 

chill ; 
The  lids  that  will  not  lift  again,  though  we  may  call  and 

call; 
The  strange  white  solitude  of  peace  that  settles  over  all. 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers  of  Mr.  Gilder's  works. 
t  From  "Poems  and  Verses."     Used  by  permission. 


POETRY  217 

We  know  not  what  it  means,  dear,  this  desolate  heart-pain ; 
This  dread  to  take  our  daily  way,  and  walk  in  it  again; 
We  know  not  to  what  other  sphere  the  loved  who  leave  us  go, 
Nor  why  we  're  left  to  wonder  still,  nor  why  we  do  not  know. 

But  this  we  know :  Our  loved  and  dead,  if  they  should  come 

this  day  — 
Should  come  and  ask  us,  ''What  is  life  ?  "  —  not  one  of  us 

could  say. 
Life  is  a  mystery  as  deep  as  ever  death  can  be; 
Yet  oh,  how  dear  it  is  to  us,  this  life  we  live  and  see ! 

Then  might  they  say,  —  these  vanished  ones,  —  and  blessed 

is  the  thought, 
"  So  death  is  sweet  to  us,  beloved !  though  we  may  show  you 

naught ; 
We  may  not  to  the  quick  reveal  the  mystery  of  death  — 
Ye  cannot  tell  us,  if  ye  would,  the  mystery  of  breath." 

The  child  who  enters  life  comes  not  with  knowledge  or  intent. 
So  those  who  enter  death  must  go  as  little  children  sent. 
ISTothing  is  known.    But  I  believe  that  God  is  overhead; 
And  as  life  is  to  the  living,  so  death  is  to  the  dead. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


THE  CHEER  OF  THOSE  WHO  SPEAK  ENGLISH 

THE  playground  is  heavy  with  silence. 
The  match  is  almost  done, 
The  boys  in  the  lengthening  shadows 
Work  hard  for  one  more  run  — 
It  comes ;  and  the  field  is  a-twinkle 
With  happy  arms  in  air, 
While  over  the  ground 
Rolls  the  masterful  sound 
Of  victory  revelling  there : 
Hurrah!    Hurrah!  Hurrah! 

Three  cheers,  and  a  tiger,  too. 
For  the  match  we  have  won 
And  each  sturdy  son 
Who  carried  the  victory  through! 
Hurrah !    Hurrah !    Hurrah ! 


218  SELECTED   READINGS 

With  clear  voices  uptossed 
For  the  side  that  has  lost, 
And  one  cheer  more 
For  those  winning  before 
And  all  who  shall  ever  win : 
The  cry  that  our  boys  send  in  — 
The  cheer  of  the  boys  who  speak  English ! 


The  ships-of-the-line  beat  to  quarters, 

The  drum  and  bugle  sound, 
The  lanterns  of  battle  are  lighted. 

Cast  off!    Provide!  goes  round; 
But  ere  the  shrill  order  is  given 
For  broadsides  hot  with  hate. 
Far  over  the  sea 
Eings  hearty  and  free 
Defiance  to  every  fate: 
Hurrah !    Hurrah !    Hurrah ! 

Three  cheers,  and  a  tiger,  too, 
For  the  fight  to  be  won 
And  each  sturdy  son 
Who  '11  carrj''  the  victory  through  I 
Hurrah !    Hurrah !    Hurrah ! 
With  the  shout  of  the  fleet 
For  foes  doomed  to  defeat, 
And  one  cheer  more 
For  those  winning  before. 
And  all  who  shall  win  again : 
This  is  the  cry  of  the  men  — • 
The  cheer  of  the  men  who  speak  English  I 


The  blare  of  the  battle  is  over; 

The  Flag  we  love  flies  on; 
The  sailors  in  sorrowful  quiet 

Look  down  on  comrades  gone ; 
The  tremulous  prayers  are  ended ; 

The  sea  obtains  its  dead ;  — 
Or  ever  the  wave 
Eipples  over  their  grave, 

One  staunch  good-bye  is  said : 
Hurrah !    Hurrah !    Hurrah ! 


POETRY  219 

Three  cheers,  and  a  tiger,  too. 
For  the  men  who  have  won. 
For  each  sturdy  son 
Who  gave  up  his  life  to  be  true! 
Hurrah!    Hurrah!    Hurrah! 
With  the  shout  of  the  host 
For  the  brothers  we  've  lost. 
And  one  cheer  more 
For  those  falling  before 
And  those  who  have  yet  to  fall : 
This  is  the  cry  of  us  all  — 
The  cheer  of  the  folk  who  speak  English! 

Wallace  Eicb. 


NASTURCHUMS 

I  LIKE  to  watch  nasturchums  grow 
Where  nothin'  else  '11  raise  a  bud ! 
They  fight  the  fiercest  winds  that  blow 
An'  don't  care  if  it 's  sand  or  mud 
They  're  growing  in.    They  're  there  to  make 

Somebody  glad,  an'  so  they  just 
Keep  spreadin'  out,  an'  laugh  an'  shake 

Themselves  to  bloom,  because  they  must ! 

That 's  why  I  like  'em !    Take  a  rose. 

You  got  to  tend  it  like  a  child  — 
Excep'  the  brier  ones,  an'  those 

Don't  do  so  well,  if  they  are  wild. 
An'  hollyhocks  '11  shrivel  up 

If  they  don't  get  enough  o'  rain  — 
An'  give  'em  too  much  by  a  cup 

An'  they  act  like  this  life 's  in  vain. 

But  them  nasturchums !    Say,  they  wear 

A  sort  o'  smile,  that  seems  to  say 
Come  sun,  come  rain,  they  never  care. 

They  got  to  grow  up  anyway ! 
No  coaxin'  needed  —  not  a  mite. 

They  bloom  the  same  for  me  as  you, 
An'  it's  a  mighty  pretty  sight 

To  see  'em  noddin'  howdydo. 


220  SELECTED   READINGS 

Well,  there 's  folks  like  'em  —  just  the  same 

As  them  nasturchums  is,  I  saj^ 
There  's  plenty  people  I  could  name 

That  live  nasturchums  lives  to-day, 
Not  hollerin'  for  sun  or  rain, 

But  goin'  cheerfully  ahead, 
Like  them  nasturchums  down  the  lane 

All  understands  they  've  got  to  spread. 

You  pull  a  pansy  off,  an'  then 

That  ends  the  pansy  for  all  time, 
ISTasturchums,  though,  they  bloom  again 

An'  look  for  windows  they  can  climb 
Up  to,  an'  tap  again'  the  pane 

An'  beg  some  one  to  take  'em  in. 
Well,  in  life's  sunshine  or  its  rain 

Some  people  is  nasturchums'  kin. 

The  more  you  take,  the  more  they  give 

An'  get  the  gladder  all  the  while ; 
It  seems  as  if  they  only  live 

To  give  their  blossoms  with  a  smile. 
I  like  to  watch  nasturchums  grow 

With  blossoms  noddin'  from  each  stem, 
An',  as  I  say,  most  of  us  know 

A  lot  o'  folks  that 's  just  like  them. 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit. 


WITH    A    POSY    FROM    SHOTTERY 

[The  flowers  named  in  this  poem  are  all  sung  of  by  Shakespeare  and 
all  grow  about  Anne  Hathaway's  cottage.] 

IN  Shottery  the  posies  nod  and  blow 
And  marigolds  and  phlox  stand  all  arow. 
The  fields  with  daisies  pied 
Reach  out  on  either  side 
Just  as  they  did  those  years  and  years  ago. 

The  banks  with  spicy  wild  thyme  thickly  set. 
The  cowslips  and  the  nodding  violet. 

And  daffodils  that  rise 

Before  the  swallow  flies 
Delight  us  wdth  their  olden  beauty  yet. 


POETRY  221 

Across  the  fields  comes  drifting  fair  and  fine 
The  fragrance  of  some  dew-kissed,  flowering  vine, 

And  at  the  meadow's  edge 

There  grows  a  scented  hedge 
Of  sweet  musk-roses  and  of  eglantine. 

Here  in  the  heart  of  all  the  bud  and  bloom, 
Through  drowsy  summer  days  of  rare  perfume. 

The  little  cottage  stands 

Where  once  her  fair  white  hands 
Mocked  sunbeams  that  had  strayed  into  the  room. 

And  on  the  step  whereby  this  posy  grew 
Will  Shakespeare  often  sat  himself  to  woo. 

Or  humming  soft  refrains 

Strolled  through  the  winding  lanes 
While  dreaming  of  the  deeds  that  he  would  do. 


"O 


This  posy  —  withered  now,  and  dead  and  brown  — 
May  well  have  sprung  from  those  that  Anne  flung  down 

From  out  her  casement  there, 

For  Will  to  catch  and  wear 
What  time  he  fared  away  to  London  Town. 

In  Shottery  are  narrow,  flowered  ways 

Where  cuckoo  buds  glow  in  the  twilight  haze  — 

But  one  stands,  musing  on 

The  flowers  that  are  gone, 
The  ones  that  bloomed  in  Shakespeare's  yesterdays. 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit. 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE    HOE* 

BOWED  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground. 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes. 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brotlier  to  the  ox? 
Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  l)row? 
Whoso  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

•  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers,  Doublcday,  McClure  &  Co, 


222  SELECTED    READINGS 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land ; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 

Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 

And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  light? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 

More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed  — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul  — 

More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim! 

Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 

Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 

What  the  long  stretches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 

The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 

Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 

Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop ; 

Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 

Plundered,  profaned,  and  disinherited, 

Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 

A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

0  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape ; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Eebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream ; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes  ? 

0  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands. 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man  ? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings  — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is  — 
Wlien  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries  ? 

Edw^in  Markham. 


POETRY  223 


DE    HABITANT* 


DE  place  I  get  born,  me,  is  up  on  de  reever 
Near  foot  of  de  rapide  dat  's  call  Cheval  Blanc. 
Beeg  mountain  behin'  it,  so  high  you  can't  climb  it 
An'  whole  place  she's  meebe  two  bonder  arpent. 

De  fader  of  me,  he  was  habitant  farmer, 
Ma  gran'fader  too,  an'  bees  fader  also. 

Dey  don't  mak'  no  monee,  but  dat  is  n't  fonny 

For  it 's  not  easy  get  ev'ry-t'ing,  you  mus'  Imow  — 

All  de  sam'  dere  is  somet'ing  dey  got  ev'r}^boddy, 

Dat 's  plaintee  good  healt',  wat  de  monee  can't  geev, 

So  I  'm  workin'  away  dere,  an'  happy  for  stay  dere 
On  farm  by  de  reever,  so  long  I  was  leev. 

0  !   dat  was  de  place  w'en  de  spring  tarn  she  's  comin', 
Wen  snow  go  away,  an'  de  sky  is  all  blue  — 

Wen  ice  lef  de  water,  an'  sun  is  get  hotter 

An'  back  on  de  medder  is  sing  d^  gou-glou  — 

Wen  small  sheep  is  firs'  comin'  out  on  de  pasture, 
Deir  nice  leetle  tail  stickin'  up  on  deir  back, 

Dey  ronne  wit'  deir  moder,  an'  play  wit'  each  oder 
An'  jomp  all  de  tam  jus'  de  sam'  dey  was  crack. 

An'  ole  cow  also,  she 's  glad  winter  is  over. 

So  she  kick  herse'f  up,  an'  start  off  on  de  race 

Wit'  de  two-year-ole  heifer,  dat 's  purty  soon  lef  her, 
Wy  ev'ryf  ing  's  crazee  all  over  de  place ! 

An'  down  on  de  reever  de  wil'  duck  is  quackin' 
Along  by  de  shore  leetle  san'  piper  ronne  — 

De  bullfrog  he  's  gr-rompin'  an'  dore  is  jompin'  — 
Dey  all  got  deir  own  way  for  mak'  it  de  fonne. 

But  spring  's  in  beeg  hurry,  an'  don't  stay  long  wit'  us, 
An'  firs'  t'ing  we  know,  she  go  off  till  nex'  year, 

Den  bee  commence  hummin',  for  summer  is  comin'. 
An'  purty  soon  corn  's  gettin'  ripe  on  de  ear, 

Dat 's  very  nice  tam  for  wake  up  on  de  morning 
An'  lissen  de  rossignol  sing  ev'ry  place, 

Feel  soul'  win'  a-blowin',  see  clover  a-growin'. 
An'  all  de  worl'  laughin'  itself  on  de  face. 

*  Copyright  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     Used  by  permission. 


224  SELECTED   READINGS 

Mos'  ev'ry  day  raf  it  is  pass  on  de  rapide, 

De  voyageurs  singin^  some  ole  chanson 
'Bout  girl  do^vTi  de  reever  —  too  bad  dey  mus'  leave  her. 

But  comin'  back  soon  wit'  beaucoup  d'argent. 

An'  den  w'en  de  fall  an'  de  winter  come  roun'  us 

An'  bird  of  de  summer  is  all  fly  away, 
Wen  mebbe  she 's  snowin'  an'  nort'  win'  is  blowin' 

An'  night  is  mos'  free  tarn  so  long  as  de  day. 

You  t'ink  it  was  bodder  de  habitant  farmer? 

Not  at  all  —  he  is  happy  an'  feel  satisfy, 
An'  cole  may  las'  good  w'ile,  so  long  as  de  wood-pile 

Is  ready  for  burn  on  de  stove  by-an'-by. 

"W'en  I  got  plaintee  hay  put  away  on  de  stable 

So  de  sheep  an'  de  cow,  dey  got  no  chance  to  freeze. 

An'  de  hen  all  togedder  —  I  don't  min'  de  wedder  — 
De  nort'  win'  may  blow  jus'  so  moche  as  she  please. 

An'  some  cole  winter  night  how  I  wish  you  can  see  us, 
W'en  I  smoke  on  de  pipe,  an'  de  ole  woman  sew 

By  de  stove  of  T'ree  Eeever  —  ma  wife's  fader  geev  her 
On  day  we  get  marry,  dat  's  long  tam  ago  — 

De  boy  an'  de  girl,  dey  was  readin'  it 's  lesson, 
De  cat  on  de  corner  she  's  bite  heem  de  pup, 

Ole  "  Carleau  "  he 's  snorin'  an'  beeg  stove  is  roarin' 
So  loud  dat  I  'm  scare  purty  soon  she  bus'  up. 

Philomene  —  dat 's  de  oldes'  —  is  sit  on  de  winder 
An'  kip  jus'  so  quiet  lak  wan  leetle  mouse, 

She  say  de  more  finer  moon  never  was  shiner  — 
Very  fonny,  for  moon  is  n't  dat  side  de  house. 

But  purty  soon  den,  we  hear  foot  on  de  outside. 
An'  some  wan  is  place  it  hees  ban'  on  de  latch, 

Dat 's  Isidore  Goulay,  las'  fall  on  de  Brule 

He  's  tak'  it  firs'  prize  on  de  grand  ploughin'  match. 

Ha  !  ha  !    Philomene !  —  dat  was  smart  trick  you  play  us. 

Come  help  de  young  feller  tak'  snow  from  hees  neck, 
Dere  's  not'ing  for  hinder  you  come  off  de  winder 

W'en  moon  you  was  look  for  is  come,  I  expec'  — 


POETRY  225 

Isidore,  he  is  tole  us  de  news  on  de  parish 

'Bout  hees  Lajeunesse  Colt  —  travel  two-forty,  sure, 

'Bout  Jeremie  Choquette,  come  back  from  Woonsocket, 
An'  free  new  leetle  twin  on  Madame  Vaillancour. 

But  nine  o'clock  strike,  an'  de  chiFren  is  sleepy, 
Mese'f  an'  ole  woman  can't  stay  up  no  more ; 

So  alone  by  de  fire  —  'cos  dey  say  dey  ain't  tire  — 
"We  lef  Philomene  an'  de  young  Isidore. 

I  s'pose  dey  be  talkin'  beeg  lot  on  de  kitchen 

'Bout  all  de  nice  moon  dey  was  see  on  de  sky. 

For  Philomene  's  takin'  long  tam  get  awaken 
ISTex'  day,  she 's  so  sleepy  on  bote  of  de  eye. 

Dat's  wan  of  dem  tings,  ev'ry  tam  on  de  fashion. 
An'  'bout  nices'  f  ing  dat  was  never  be  seen. 

Got  not'ing  for  say,  me  —  I  spark  it  sam'  way,  me 
Wen  I  go  see  de  moder  ma  girl  Philomene. 

We  leev  very  quiet  'way  back  on  de  contree, 

Don't  put  on  sam'  style  lak  de  big  village, 

Wen  we  don't  get  de  monee  you  t'ink  dat  is  fonny 
An'  mak'  plaintee  sport  on  de  Bottes  Sauvages. 

But  I  tole  you  —  dat 's  true  —  I  don't  go  on  de  city 

If  you  geev  de  fine  house  an'  beaucoup  d'argent  — 

I  rader  be  stay,  me,  an'  spen'  de  las'  day,  me 

On  farm  by  de  rapide  dat 's  call  Cheval  Blanc. 

William  Henry  Drummond. 


MY    SHIPS 

IF  all  the  ships  I  have  at  sea 
Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me, 
Ah,  well!   the  harbor  could  not  hold 
So  many  sails  as  there  would  be 
In  all  my  ships  now  out  at  sea. 

If  half  the  ships  I  have  at  sea 

Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me. 

Ah,  well !   I  should  have  wealth  as  great 
As  any  king  who  sits  in  state. 

So  rich  the  treasures  there  would  be 

In  half  my  ships  now  out  at  eea. 

15 


226  SELECTED   READINGS  ! 

If  just  one  ship  I  have  at  sea  i 
Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me, 

Ah,  well !  the  storm  clouds  then  might  frown; 

For,  if  the  others  all  went  down,  « 

Still  rich,  and  proud,  and  glad  I  'd  be  j 

If  that  one  ship  came  home  to  me.  j 

If  that  one  ship  went  down  at  sea,  I 

And  all  the  others  came  to  me  i 

Weighted  down  with  wealth  untold,  | 

With  glory,  honor,  riches,  gold;  I 

The  poorest  soul  on  earth  I  'd  be  | 

If  that  one  ship  came  not  to  me.  \ 

Oh,  skies  be  calm,  oh,  winds  blow  free,  ! 

Blow  all  my  ships  safe  home  to  me;  ' 

But  if  thou  sendest  some  a-wreck,  ! 

To  nevermore  come  sailing  back,  i 

Send  any,  all  that  skim  the  sea,  j 
But  bring  that  one  ship  home  to  me. 

Ella  Wheelee  Wilcox.  I 


CARCASSONNE 

Translated  from  the  French 

HOW  old  I  am  !    I  'm  eighty  year ! 
I  've  worked  both  hard  and  long. 
Yet,  patient  as  my  life  has  been, 
One  dearest  sight  I  have  not  seen,  — 

It  almost  seems  a  wrong : 
A  dream  I  had  when  life  was  new  — 
Alas,  our  dreams !  they  come  not  true ; 
I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne ! 
I  have  not  seen  fair  Carcassonne ! 


One  sees  it  dimly  from  the  height 

Beyond  the  mountain  blue ; 
Fain  would  I  walk  five  weary  leagues  — 
I  do  not  mind  the  road's  fatigues  — 

Through  morn  and  evening  dew; 
But  bitter  frosts  would  fall  at  night, 
And  on  the  grapes  that  yellow  blight; 
I  could  not  go  to  Carcassonne, 
I  never  went  to  Carcassonne. 


POETRY  227 

They  say  it  is  as  gay  all  times 

As  holidays  at  home ; 
The  gentles  ride  in  gay  attire, 
And  in  the  sun  each  gilded  spire 

Shoots  up  like  those  of  Rome ! 
The  Bishop  the  procession  leads, 
The  generals  curb  their  prancing  steeds  — 

Alas !    I  know  not  Carcassonne  ! 

Alas !   I  saw  not  Carcassonne  ! 

Our  Yicar  's  right ;  he  preaches  loud, 

And  bids  us  to  beware. 
He  says :  "  0,  guard  the  weakest  part, 
And  most  the  traitor  in  the  heart. 

Against  ambition's  snare !  " 
Perhaps  in  autumn  I  can  find 
Two  sunny  days  with  gentle  wind; 

I  then  could  go  to  Carcassonne, 

I  still  could  go  to  Carcassonne. 

My  God  and  Father !  pardon  me 

If  this  my  wish  offends ! 
One  sees  some  hope  more  high  than  he, 
In  age,  as  in  his  infancy, 

To  which  his  heart  ascends ! 
My  wife,  my  son,  have  seen  Narbonne, 
My  grandson  went  to  Perpignan ; 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne. 

Thus  sighed  a  peasant,  bent  with  age, 

Half  dreaming  in  his  chair. 
I  said,  "  My  friend,  come  go  with  me 
To-morrow;   then  your  eyes  shall  see 

Those  sights  that  seem  so  fair." 
That  night  there  came,  for  passing  soul, 
The  church  bell's  low  and  solemn  toll ! 

He  never  saw  gay  Carcassonne. 

WTio  has  not  known  a  Carcassonne? 

M.  E.  W.  Sherwood. 


228  SELECTED   READINGS 


"ONE,    TWO,    THREE"* 

IT  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady 
And  a  boy  who  was  half-past  three, 
And  the  way  that  they  played  together 
Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  could  n't  go  romping  and  jumping, 
And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 

For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 

With  a  thin  little  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  under  the  maple  tree, 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I  '11  tell  you. 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing, 

Though  you  'd  never  have  known  it  to  be  — 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady 

And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee 

And  he  'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three. 

"  You  're  in  the  china  closet !  " 

He  would  laugh  and  cry  with  glee- 
It  was  n't  the  china  closet. 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"  You  are  up  in  papa's  big  bedroom. 

In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key  " ; 

And  she  said,  "  You  are  warm  and  warmer, 
But  you  are  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

"  It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard 

Where  mamma's  things  used  to  be. 

So  it  must  be  the  clothes-press,  Gran'ma !  '* 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

*  Reprinted  hy  permisnion  from  "  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner,"    Copyright,  1884, 
1892,  1896,  1899,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


POETRY  229 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 
That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places 

Eight  under  the  maple  tree  — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady 

And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee  — 
This  dear,  dear,  dear,  old  lady 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 

H.   C.   BUNNER. 


PROVENgAL    LOVERS* 

WITHIN  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 
He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair,  — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "  My  love,  my  pet. 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle  " ; 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  Now,  who  should  there  in  heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care ! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met; 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring  " ; 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well  tattered  by  the  briars, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine; 
I  like  them  not  —  a  starveling  set ! 
Who'd  care  with  folk  like  these  to  dine? 
The  other  road  't  were  just  as  well 
That  you  and  I  shoul-d  take,  ma  belle! " 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

♦  Bi/  permiaaian  of  Houghlon  Mifflin  &  Co. 


230  SELECTED   READINGS 

"  To  purgatory  I  would  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights. 
The  men  of  valor  and  degree ; 
We  '11  join  that  gallant  company  !  " 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides, 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides,  — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay. 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray  " ; 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings, 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings. 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free ! 
Pardie !    I  'd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I  'd  forgo 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below ! " 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


MY    ANGEL    AND   I 

AN  angel  was  born  in  the  soul  of  my  soul ; 
His  forehead  shone  like  a  lucent  gem 
In  its  setting  of  golden  hair; 
I  felt  his  angelic  pulses  roll; 
Like  the  floor  of  the  new  Jerusalem, 
His  bosom  was  white  and  fair. 

I  said,  "  My  angel,  my  youth's  ideal, 

I  will  hold  to  you,  though  men  call  you  unreal  I 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go !  " 
But  I  answered,  "  No !  " 


POETRY  231 

!My  life,  when  cast  on  his  glittering  breast. 

Broke  into  rainbow  hues  whose  glow 

"Was  marvellous  to  behold,  — 

Like  a  sunbeam  drawn  from  its  golden  rest. 

And  dashed  on  a  prism,  and  sliattered  so 

Into  violet,  red,  and  gold. 

Men  said,  "  A  dream,  a  fantasy  wild. 

Has  ravished  his  soul  and  his  reason  beguiled." 


o' 


The  world  said,  "Let  go!"  ; 

But  I  answered,  "  No !  "  j 

We  slipped  —  my  angel  and  I  —  and  fell; 

The  star-beams  blazed  from  his  jostled  crown  ! 

Down,  down  —  0   Heaven !   how   low  ' 

We  slipped  togetber  in  that  dark  well ! 

The  world,  passing  by,  looked  solemnly  down  ; 

With  its  wise  "  I  told  you  so !  " 

My  angel's  robe  looked  draggled  and  torn;  j 

But  I  clung  to  him,  spite  of  human  scorn.  ! 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go  !  " 
But  I  answered,  "  No !  " 

A  jar,  a  crash!     Did  a  thunderbolt  fall  ' 
From  the  throne  of  God  with  a  lightning  pace. 

And  strike  the  earth  to  her  heart?  ^ 

My  angel  reeled  from  his  castle  wall,  j 

And  fold  over  fold  clouds  muffled  his  face,  j 
Forcing  us  wide  apart. 

I  clung  to  his  white  robe  with  a  grip 

Too  strong  with  the  strength  of  despair  to  slip. 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go !  " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  !  " 

We  swept  through  strange  darks  together  so; 

Clouds  big  with  thunder  about  ns  crashed, 

And  the  lightning  shook  its  wings; 

Through  all  the  blackness  and  lurid  glow 

God's  face  —  though  I  did  not  know  it  —  flashed,  j 

And  his  hand  kept  the  balance  of  things.  I 


232  SELECTED    READINGS  \ 


My  angel,  my  angel,  I  clung  to  you  then. 
Despite  the  pitiless  gibes  of  men. 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go !  " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  !  " 

Like  the  birth  of  a  star  from  God's  word  in  the  night. 

The  earth  flashed  out  of  the  storm,  all  clad 

In  the  fresh  robes  of  His  love; 

We  stood  together  on  the  height,  — 

My  angel  and  I,  —  serene  and  glad, 

With  the  hush  of  stars  above. 

The  world  looked  up  with  sapient  eyes, 
And  said,  "  I  tliought  so ;  you  were  wise ! " 

World,  shall  I  let  go  ? 

But  the  world  cried,  "  No !  " 

Blanche  Feaeino. 


THE    SHADOW    CHH^D  * 

WHY  do  the  wheels  go  whirring  round. 
Mother,  mother? 
Oh,  mother,  are  they  giants  bound, 
And  will  they  growl  forever?  , 
Yes;  fier}^  giants  underground, 

Daughter,  little  daughter. 
Forever  turn  the  wheels  around 
And  rumble-grumble  ever. 

Why  do  I  feel  so  tired  each  night, 

Mother,  mother? 
The  wheels  are  always  buzzing  bright  — 

Do  they  grow  sleepy  never? 
Oh,  baby  thing,  so  soft  and  white. 
Daughter,  little  daughter, 
The  big  wheels  grind  us  in  their  might 
And  tire  of  grinding  never. 

Why  do  I  pick  the  threads  all  day. 

Mother,  mother. 
While  sunshine  children  are  at  play? 
And  must  I  work  forever? 

*  By  permission  of  the  Century  Co. 


POETRY  233 

Yes,  shadow  child,  the  livelong  day! 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
Y'our  hands  must  pick  the  threads  away 
And  feel  the  sunshine  never. 

Why  do  the  birds  sing  in  the  sun, 

]\Iother,   mother, 
"^Tiile  all  day  long  I  run  and  run  — 

Run  with  the  wheels  forever? 
The  birds  may  sing  till  day  is  done. 
Daughter,  little  daughter  — 
But  with  the  wheels  3'our  feet  must  run 
From  dark  till  dark  forever. 

And  is  the  white  thread  never  spun. 

Mother,  mother? 
And  is  the  white  cloth  never  done  — 

For  you  and  me  done  never? 
Oh  yes,  our  threads  will  all  be  spun, 

Daughter,  little  daughter, 
When  we  lie  down  out  in  the  sun 
And  work  no  more  forever. 

And  when  will  come  that  happy  day. 

Mother,  mother? 
Oh,  shall  we  laugh  and  sing  and  play 

Out  in  the  sun  forever? 
Nay,  shadow  child,  we  '11  rest  all  day. 

Daughter,  little  daughter. 
Where  green  grass  grows  and  roses  gay 
Out  in  the  sun  forever, 

Harriet  Monroe. 


THE    WHOLE    CREATION    GROANETH 

AET  glad  ^vith  the  gladness  of  youth  in  thy  veins, 
In  thy  hands,  for  the  spending  earth's  joys  and  its 
gains  ? 
Lo !    winged  with  storm  shadows,  the  torturers  come; 
And  to-night  or  to-morrow  thy  lips  shall  be  dumb, 
Thy  hands  wot  with  pain-thrills,  thy  nerves,  that  were  strung 
Of  fineness  of  sense,  by  earth's  pleasures  be  wrung 


234  SELECTED   READINGS 

With  pangs  the  beast  knows  not,  nor  he  who  in  tents 
Lives  lone  in  the  desert,  and  knoweth  not  whence 
The  bread  of  to-morrow.    Pain  like  to  a  mist 
Goeth  up  from  the  earth  and  is  lost,  and  none  wist 
Why  ever  it  cometh,  why  ever  it  waits 
In  the  heart  of  our  loves,  like  a  foe  in  our  gates. 

Lo !  summer  and  sunshine  are  over  the  land,  — 

Who  marshalled  yon  billows  ?    What  wind  of  command 

Drives  ever  their  merciless  march  on  the  strand? 

Thus,  dateless,  relentless,  the  children  of  strife, 

None  have  seen,  on  the  sun-lighted  beaches  of  life. 

March  ever  the  ravening  billows  of  pain. 

0  heart  that  is  breaking,  go  ask  of  the  brain 

If  aught  of  God's  spending  is  squandered  in  vain  ? 

Yea,  where  is  the  sunshine  of  centuries  dead? 

Yea,  where  are  the  raindrops  of  yesterday  shed? 

God  findeth  anew  his  lost  light  in  the  force 

That  holdeth  the  world  on  its  resolute  course, 

And  surely,  as  surely  the  madness  of  pain 

Shall  pass  into  wisdom,  and  come  back  again 

An  angel  of  courage,  if  thou  art  the  one 

That  knoweth  to  deal  with  the  lightnings  that  stun 

To  blindness  the  many.     A  thousand  shall  fall 

By  the  waysides  of  life,  and  in  helplessness  call 

For  the  death-alms  which  nature  gives  freely  to  all ; 

And  one,  like  the  jewel,  shall  break  the  fierce  light 

That  blindeth  thy  vision,  and  flash  through  the  night 

The  colors  that  read  us  its  meaning  aright. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 


THE    LUTE    PLAYER*  j 

SHE  was  a  lady  great  and  splendid,  i 
I  was  a  minstrel  in  her  hall ; 
A  warrior  like  a  prince  attended 

And  stayed  his  steed  at  her  castle  wall.  s 

Far  had  he  fared  to  gaze  upon  her.  ; 

"  Oh,  rest  thee  now.  Sir  Knight !  "  she  said.  < 

The  warrior  wooed,  the  warrior  won  her,  j 

In  time  of  snowdrops  they  were  wed.  i 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publisher,  John  Lane  Company,  The  Bndley  i 

Head.  1 


POETRY  J         235 

I  made  sweet  music  in  his  honor  — 
And  longed  to  strike  him  dead. 
I  passed  at  midnight  from  her  portal, 
Throughout  the  world  till  death  I  roam. 
Oh,  let  me  make  this  Lute  immortal 
With  rapture  of  my  hate  and  love ! 

William  Watson. 


THE    DAY    IS    DONE* 

THE   day  is   done,  and  the   darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist! 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain. 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem. 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling. 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime. 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time: 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Eead  from  some  humbler  poet. 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

♦  By  permiaaion  of  Houghton  Mijjlin  <i  Co. 


236  SELECTED    READINGS 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease. 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  M'onderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music. 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day. 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


MARGUERITE  * 

Whittier's  Favorite  among  His  own  Poems 

[It  is  not  generally  known  that  Whittier  had  intended  publishing  a 
long  poem  on  the  French  neutral;  but  before  he  had  collected  suffi- 
cient material,  Longfellow's  "Evangeline"  appeared,  dealing  with  the 
same  characters.] 

THE  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds  into  blossoms 
grew; 
Little  of  human  sorroAv  the  buds  and  the  robins  knew! 

Sick,  in  an  alien  household,  the  poor  French  neutral  lay; 
Into  her  lonesome  garret  fell  the  light  of  the  April  day. 

Through  the  dusty  window,  curtained  by  the  spider's  warp 

and  woof, 
On  the  loose-laid  floor  of  hemlock,  on  oaken  ribs  of  roof. 

The  bedquilt's  faded  patchwork,  the  teacups  on  the  stand, 
The  wheel  with  flaxen  tangle,  as  it  dropped  from  her  sick 
hand! 

*  Bu  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co. 


POETRY  237 

What  to  her  was  the  song  of  the  robin,  or  warm  morning 

light, 
As  she  lay  in  the  trance  of  the  d3dng,  heedless  of  sound  or 

sight  ? 

Done  was  the  work  of  her  hands,  she  had  eaten  her  bitter 

bread; 
The  world  of  the  alien  people  lay  behind  her  dim  and  dead. 

But  her  soul  went  back  to  its  child-time;  she  saw  the  sun 

overflow 
With  gold  the  basin  of  Minas,  and  set  over  Gasperau. 

She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother,  she  heard  the  song  she  sang ; 
And  far  off,  faintly,  slowly,  the  bell  for  vespers  rang! 

By   her   bed   the  hard-faced   mistress    sat,    smoothing   the 

wrinkled  sheet, 
Peering  into  the  face  so  helpless,  and  feeling  the  ice-cold 

feet. 

With   a  vague  remorse,   atoning  for  her  greed   and  long 

abuse. 
By  care  no  longer  heeded  and  pity  too  late  for  use. 

Up  the  stairs  of  the  garret  softly  the  son  of  the  mistress 

stepped. 
Leaned  over   the  head-board,    covering  his   face   with   his 

hands,  and  wept. 

Outspake  the  mother,  who  watched  him  sharply,  with  brow 

a-f  rown : 
"  ^\^^at !    love  you  the  Papist,  the  beggar,  the  charge  of  the 

town?" 

"  Be  she  Papist  or  beggar  who  lies  here,  I  know  and  God 

knows 
I  love  her,  and  fain  would  go  with  her  wherever  she  goes ! 

"  0   mother !  that  sweet  face  came   pleading,   for  love  so 

athirst. 
You  saw  hut  the  town-charge;  I  knew  her  God's  angel  at 

first." 


238  SELECTED   READINGS 

Shaking  her  gray  head,  the  mistress  hushed  down  a  bitter 

cry ; 
And  awed  by  the  silence  and  shadow  of  death  drawing  nigh, 

She  murmured  a  psalm  of  the  Bible;  but  closer  the  young 

girl  pressed, 
With  the  last  of  her  life  in  her  fingers,  the  cross  to  her 

breast. 

"  My  son,  come  away,"  cried  the  mother,  her  voice  cruel 

grown. 
*'  She  is  joined  to  her  idols,  like  Ephraim ;   let  her  alone  !  " 

But  he  knelt  with  his  hand  on  her  forehead,  his  lips  to  her 

ear. 
And  he  called  back  the  soul  that  was  passing :  "  Marguerite, 

do  you  hear  ?  " 

She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  heaven;  love,  pity,  surprise. 
Wistful,  tender,  lit  up  for  an  instant  the  cloud  of  her  eyes. 

With  his  heart  on  his  lips  he  kissed  her,  but  never  her  cheek 

grew  red. 
And  the  words  the  living  long  for  he  spake  in  the  ear  of 

the  dead. 

And  the  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  where  buds  to  blossoms 

gi'ew; 
Of  the  folded  hands  and  the  still  face  never  the  robins  knew ! 

John  G.  Whittier. 


BILL    AND    JOE* 

COME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will   steal  an  hour  from   days   gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new. 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew,  — 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail, 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail; 

*  By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co, 


POETRY  239 

And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare; 
To-day  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill, 

You  've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  HON.  and  LL.D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow  !   off  they  go  ! 
How  are  you  Bill?    How  are  you  Joe? 

You've  won  the  judge's  ermined  robe; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe ; 
You've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain; 
Y"ou  've  made  the  dead  past  live  again : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 

"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray ; 

They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens ! 

Mad,  poor  old  boys !     That 's  what  it  means,  "  — 

And  shake  their  heads;  they  little  know 

The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe! 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride. 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise. 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame; 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust. 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust: 

A  few  swdft  years,  and  who  can  show 

Which  dust  was  Bill,  and  which  was  Joe? 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand. 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go, — 

How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show ! 

'Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  tlirill, 

'T  is  poor  old  Joe's  "  God  bless  you.  Bill !  " 


240  SELECTED   READINGS 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears,  — 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song, 
For  earth-born  spirits   none  too   long,  — 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below, 
"WTiere  this  was  Bill,  and  that  was  Joe? 

No  matter;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say? 
Eead  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hie  jacet  Joe.    Hie  jacet  Bill. 

Oliver  W.  Holmes. 


AUF    WIEDERSEHEN* 

THE  little  gate  was  reached  at  last. 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  passed, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 

And  said,  —  "  Auf  wiedersehen  !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 
Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said,  —  "Auf  wiedersehen!'^ 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair; 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare. 

Thinks  she,  "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

•  ••••• 

'T  is  thirteen  years:  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah  yes, 
I  hear,  "Auf  wiedersehen! " 

*  By  permif:sion.  of  Houghton  Mifflin  <fc  Co, 


POETRY  241 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 

She  said,  ''  Auf  wiedersehen !  " 

James  K.  Lowell. 


IDENTITY  * 

i 

SOMEWHEEE  —  in  desolate  wind-swept  space  —  | 

In  Twilight-land  —  in  ISTo-man's-land  —  | 

Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face,  | 

And  bade  each  other  stand.  i 


"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  cried  one  a-gape. 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
"  I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 

"  I  only  died  last  night ! " 

Thomas  B.  Aldrich. 


ULYSSES 

IT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel ;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.    All  times  I  have  enjo/d 
Greatly,  have  suflPcr'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;   on  shore,  and  when 
Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea.    I  am  become  a  name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
]\Iuch  have  I  seen  and  known,  —  cities  of  men 
And   manners,   climates,   councils,   governments, 
i\Ivself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all,  — 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

♦  Bu  permission  of  Houqhlon  Mifflin  &  Co, 
16 


242  SELECTED   READINGS 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where-through 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 

To  rust  unbumish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  though  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains;  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself. 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  mv  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 

To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle,  — 

Well  loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 

This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 

A  rugged  people,  and  through  soft  degrees 

Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 

Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 

Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 

When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail; 

There  gloom  the  dark,  broad  seas.     My  mariners. 

Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me. 

That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 

The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads,  —  you  and  I  are  old ; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil. 

Death  closes  all;  but  something  ere  the  end. 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinlvle  from  the  rocks ; 

The  long  day  wanes ;  the  slow  moon  climbs ;  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  friends, 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order,  smite 

The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 


POETRY  243 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down; 

It  ma}^  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  though 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we  are,  we  are,  — 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

THE    FIRST    QUARREL 

''TXT' AIT  a  little,"  you  say.     Wait!  ...  I  work  an'  I 

VV      wait  to  the  end. 
I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an'  you  are  my  only  friend. 

Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I  '11  tell  you  the  tale  o'  my  life. 
When  Harry  an'  I  were  children,  he  call'd  me  liis  own  little 

wife; 
I  was  happy  when  I  was  with  him,  an'  sorry  when  he  was 

away, 
An'  when  we  play'd  together,  I  loved  him  better  than  play; 
He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain  —  he  made  me  the  cowslip 

ball. 
He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude,  an'  I  loved  him  better 

than  all. 
Passionate  girl  tho'  I  was,  an'  often  at  home  in  disgrace, 
I  never  could  quarrel  with  Harry  —  I  had  but  to  look  in 

his  face. 

There  was  a  farmer  in  Dorset  of  Harry's  kin,  that  had  need 
Of  a  good  stout  lad  at  his  farm;  he  sent,  an'  the  father 

agreed ; 
So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire  farm  for  years  an' 

for  years ; 
I  walk'd  with  him  down  to   the  quay,   poor  lad,   an'   we 

parted  in  tears. 
The  boat  was  beginning  to  move,  we  heard  them  a-ringing 

the  bell, 
"  I  '11  never  love  any  but  you,  God  bless  you,  my  own  little 

Nell." 


244  SELECTED   READINGS 

And  years  went  over  till  I  that  was  little  had  grown  so  tall 
The  men  would  say  of  the  maids,  "  Our  Nelly 's  the  flower 

of  'em  all." 
I  did  n't  take  heed  o'  them,  but  I  taught  myself  all  I  could 
To  make  a  good  wife  for  Harry,  when  Harry  came  home 

for  good. 

Often  I  seem'd  unhappy,  and  often  as  happy  too, 

For  I  heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields,  "  I  '11  never  love  any 

but  you  " ; 
"  I  '11  never  love  any  but  you,"  the  morning  song  of  the  lark, 
"  I  '11  never  love  any  but  you,"  the  nightingale's  hymn  in  the 

dark. 

And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he  look'd  at  me  sidelong 

and  shy, 
Vext  me  a  bit,  till  he  told  me  that  so  many  years  had  gone  by, 
I  had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall  —  that  I  might  ha'  forgot 

him  somehow  — 
For  he  thought  —  there  were  other  lads  —  he  was  fear'd  to 

look  at  me  now. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were  married  o'  Christ- 
mas day, 

Married  among  the  red  berries,  and  all  as  merry  as  May  — 

Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my  house  an'  my  man  were 
my  pride. 

We  seem'd  like  ships  i'  the  Channel  a-sailing  with  wind  an' 
tide. 

But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho'  he  tried  the  villages 

round. 
So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see  if  work  could  be 

found ; 
An'  he  wrote :  "  I  ha'  six  weeks'  work,  little  wife,  so  far  as 

I  know; 
I  '11  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an'  kiss  you  before  I  go." 

So  I  set  to  righting  the  house,  for  was  n't  he  coming  that 

day? 
An'  I  hit  on  an  old  deal-box  that  was  push'd  in  a  corner 

away. 
It  was  full  of  old  odds  an'  ends,  an'  a  letter  along  wi'  the 

rest, 
I  had  better  ha'  put  my  naked  hand  in  a  hornets'  nest. 


POETRY  245 

"  Sweetheart "  —  this  was  the  letter  —  this  was  the  letter  I 

read  — 
"  You  promised  to  find  me  work  near  you,  an'  I  wish  I  was 

dead  — 
Did  n't  you  kiss  me  an'  promise  ?    You  have  n't  done  it,  my 

lad. 
An'   I  almost  died  o'  your  going  away,  an'  I  wish  that 

I  had." 

I  too  wish  that  I  had  —  in  the  pleasant  times  that  had  past. 
Before  I   quarrell'd  with  Harry  —  my  quarrel  —  the  first 
an'  the  last. 

For  Harry  came  in,  an'  I  flung  him  the  letter  that  drove 

me  wild, 
An'  he  told  me  all  at  once,  as  simple  as  any  child, 
"  Wliat  can  it  matter  my  lass,  what  I  did  wi'  my  single 

life? 
I  ha'  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a  man  to  his  wife; 
An'  she  wasn't  one  o'  the  worst."     "Then,"  I  said,  "I'm 

none  o'  the  best." 
An'  he  smiled  at  me,  "  Ain't  you,  my  love  ?     Come,  come, 

little  wife,  let  it  rest! 
The  man  is  n't  like  the  woman,  no  need  to  make  such  a 

stir." 
But  he  anger'd  me  all  the  more,  an'  I  said,  "  You  were  keep- 
ing with  her. 
When  1  was  a-loving  you  all  along  an'  the  same  as  before." 
An'  he  did  n't  speak  for  a  while,  an'  he  anger'd  me  more 

and  more. 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  gentle  way,  "  Let  bygones 

be!" 
"  Bygones !   you   kept  yours  hush'd,"   I   said,   "  when  you 

married  me! 
Bygones  ma'  be  come-agains !  .  .  .  I  hate  her  —  an'  I  hate 

you ! " 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better  ha'  beaten  me  black 

an'  blue 
Than  ha'  spoken  as  kind  as  you  did,  when  I  were  so  crazy 

wi'  spite, 
"  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it  'ill  all  come  right." 

An'  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain,  an'  I  watch'd  him,  an' 
when  he  came  in 


24G  SELECTED   READINGS 

I  felt  that  my  heart  was  hard;  he  was  all  wet  thro'  to  the 

skin. 
An'  I  never  said  "  off  wi'  the  wet/'  I  never  said  "  on  wi' 

the  dry," 
So  I  knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when  he  came  to  bid  me 

good-bye. 
"  You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen,  but  that  is  n't  true, 

you  know; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  bit  —  you  '11  kiss  me  before  I  go  ?  " 

"  I  had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kissed !  "  —  I  did  n't  know  well 

what  I  meant, 
But  I  turn'd  my  face  from  him,  an'  he  turned  liis  face  an' 

he  went. 

And  then  he  sent  me  a  letter,  "  I  've  gotten  my  work  to  do ; 
You  would  n't  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an'  I  never  loved  any  but 

you; 
I  am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel,  an'  sorry  for  what  she  wrote, 
I  ha'  six  weeks'  work  in  Jersey,  an'  go  to-night  by  the  boat." 

An'  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an'  I  thought  of  him  out  at  sea. 
An'  I  felt  I  had  been  to  blame ;  he  was  always  kind  to  me. 
"  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it  'ill  all  come  right "  — 
An'  the  boat  went  down  that  niglit  —  the  boat  went  down 
that  night. 

Alfred  Tennyson". 
Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

THE    DAFFODILS 

IWANDEEED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills. 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  ]\Iilky  Way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 


POETRY  ^47 

The  waves  beside  tliem  danced,  but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee; 
A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company; 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

William  Wordsworth. 

ABOU    BEN    ADHEM 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
jlX.    Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room. 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom. 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  What  writest  thou  ?  "    The  vision  raised  its  head. 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord. 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
^'  And  is  mine  one  ?  "  said  Abou.    "  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  ''  I  pray  thee,  then. 
Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men." 
The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  awakening  light, 
And  showed  tbe  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blest. 
And  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 

LiEiGn  Hunt. 

CUPID    SWALLOWED 

T'  OTHER  day,  as  I  was  twining 
Roses  for  a  crown  to  dine  in. 
What,  of  all  things,  midst  the  heap. 
Should  I  light  on,  fast  asleep. 


248  SELECTED   READINGS 

But  the  little  desperate  elf, 

The  tiny  traitor,  —  Love  himself ! 

By  the  wings  I  pinched  him  up 

Like  a  bee,  and  in  a  cup 

Of  my  wine  I  plunged  and  sank  him ; 

And  what  d'  ye  think  I  did  ?  —  I  drank  him ! 

Faith,  I  thought  him  dead.    Not  he ! 

There  he  lives  with  tenfold  glee; 

And  now  this  moment,  with  his  wings 

I  feel  him  tickling  my  heart-strings. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


O    CAPTAIN!     MY    CAPTAIN! 

[Written  as  a  funeral  poem  for  Lincoln,  and  one  of  the  great  poems 
of  the  nineteenth  century.] 

0    CAPTAIN" !  my  Captain !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 
is  won. 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting. 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  0  heart!  heart!  heart! 

0  the  bleeding  drops  of  red. 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

0  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 

Else  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the  bugle  trills, 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding. 
For  you   they   call,   the   swaying  mass,   their  eager  faces 
turning ; 
Here  Captain,  dear  father ! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You  've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still. 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done. 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won. 


POETRY  249 

Exult,  0  shores,  and  ring,  0  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman. 


A   THING   OF  BEAUTY   IS   A   JOY   FOREVER 

Excerpt  from  "Endymion,"  Book  I 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 
Its  loveliness  increases;   it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 
Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhimian  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways 
Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.    Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in;  and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season;  the  mid-forest  brake, 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms: 
And  such,  too,  is  the  gi'andeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 
An  endless  foimtain  of  immortal  drink. 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

John  Keats. 


GOOD-NIGHT 

GOOD-NIGHT  ?  ah !  no ;  the  hour  is  ill 
"WTiich  severs  those  it  should  unite; 
Let  us  remain  together  still, 

Then  it  will  be  good-night. 


250  SELECTED   READINGS 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood  — 
Then  it  will  be  —  good-night 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 

From  evening  close  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good;  because,  my  love. 
They  never  say  good-night. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


A' 


VERSES    ON    A    CAT 

i 

CAT  in  distress,  j 

Nothing  more,  nor  less ;  j 

Good  folks,  I  must  faithfully  tell  ye,  ] 

As  I  am  a  sinner,  ' 

It  waits  for  some  dinner 

To  stuff  out  its  own  little  belly. 

You  would  not  easily  guess 

All  the  modes  of  distress 
Wliich  torture  the  tenants  of  earth; 

And  the  various  evils, 

Which  like  so  many  devils. 
Attend  the  poor  souls  from  their  birth. 

Some  a  living  require, 

And  others  desire 
An  old  fellow  out  of  the  way; 

And  which  is  the  best 

I  leave  to  be  guessed. 
For  I  cannot  pretend  to  say. 

One  wants  society, 

Another  variety, 
Others  a  tranquil  life; 

Some  want  food, 

Others,  as  good. 
Only  want  a  wife. 

But  this  poor  little  cat 

Only  wanted  a  rat, 
To  stuff  out  its  own  little  maw ; 

And  it  were  as  good 

Some  people  had  such  food. 
To  make  them  hold  their  jaw! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


POETRY  251 


DRINK    TO    ME    ONLY    WITH    THINE    EYES 

DEIXK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I  '11  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath. 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee! 
Traxslated  by  Ben  Jonson  prom  Philostratus. 


N 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

OVEMBEH  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh; 
The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 


The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes. 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 

•  •••••• 

And  wear}^,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin',  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flitcherin'  noise  an'  glee, 

•  •••••• 

And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Bel;yve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 

•  ••••• 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 


252  SELECTED   READINGS 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 
An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers: 

The  social  hours,  swift-wing' d,  unnotic'd  fleet; 
Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command. 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an'  eydent  hand, 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play: 
"  An'  0 !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway. 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might; 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright!" 

But  hark  1  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 
Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ; 

A  strappin'  youth,  he  takes  the  mother's  eye ; 

She,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashf u'  an'  sae  grave ; 
Weel-pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face. 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride: 

.  •  •  •  • 

And  "  Let  us  worship  God ! "  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 


POETRY  253 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  gnise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim: 
Perhaps  "  Dundee's "  wild  warbling  measures  rise. 

Or  plaintive  "  Mart3rs,"  worthy  of  the  name. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days: 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
Together  hpnning  their   Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 

The  younghng  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  request. 
That  he  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest. 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best. 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

EoBERT  Burns. 
Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

THE    CHILD    MUSICIAN 

HE  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee, 
He  had  played  for  her  ladyship's  whim. 
Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy. 

And  the  poor  little  brain  would  swim. 


254  SELECTED   READINGS 

And  the  face  grew  peaked  and  eerie. 

And  the  large  eyes  strange  and  bright, 

And  they  said,  —  too  late,  —  "  He  is  weary ! 
He  shall  rest  for,  at  least,  to-night ! " 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were  waking. 
As  they  watched  in  the  silent  gloom. 

With  the  sonnd  of  a  strained  cord  breaking 
A  something  snapped  in  the  room. 

'T  was  a  string  of  his  violoncello, 

And  they  heard  him  stir  in  his  bed :  — 

"  Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow, 

Kind  God ! "  was  the  last  that  he  said. 

Austin  Dobson. 


SOMEWHERE 

SOMEWHEEE  the  spirit  will  come  to  its  own, 
Through  tear-mist  or  star-dust,  from  circle  to  zone; 
In  the  scent  of  dead  roses,  in  winds,  or  in  waves. 
From  the  gold  of  the  sunset  to  flower-kissed  graves. 
Sing  on,  and  trust  ever !  be  steadfast !  for  see ! 
The  true  and  the  lovely  are  allies  with  thee. 
Stretch  up  to  the  heights  the  brave  toilere  have  trod; 
Somewhere   there  is   recompense  —  evei7where   God  ! 

Helen  Hinsdale  Eich. 


ON    A    GRAY    BIRTHDAY 

YEAES  are  flying!     Even  so 
As  o'er  others,  must  they  go 
Over  your  dear  head,  and  streak 
With  Time's  pencil  your  loved  cheek. 

Gray  must  take  the  place  of  gold. 
Limbs  grow  feeble,  passion  cold; 
Through  it  all,  dear,  you  and  I 
Will  be  lovers  till  we  die. 

And  if  lovers,  spite  of  years, 
Wliat  care  we  for  Time  or  tears? 
Time  takes  not  the  essential  thing. 
Bears  not  love  upon  his  wing. 


POETRY  ^55 

Tears  are  for  the  foolish  young. 
Hearts  unchastened,  nerves  unstrung: 
We  have  wept,  but  weep  no  more ; 
What's  to  weep  for,  at  threescore? 

We  have  learned  that,  good  or  ill. 
Naught  in  life  can  quite  fulfil 
What  we  hope  or  what  we  fear, 
Nothing  's  quite  worth  laugh  or  tear. 

^Miat  seemed  ill  proves  not  so  bad, 
Haply  good,  in  russet  clad; 
And  the  things  that  promised  best 
Oft  prove  plague-gifts,  gaily  drest. 

Deep  below  the  waves  of  fate  — 
Lust,  ambition,  greed,  and  hate  — 
We  have  found  the  tideless  sea 
Where  perpetual  peace  may  be. 

Peace  of  hearts  that  beat  as  one, 
Fearing  nothing,   hating  none. 
Closer  nestling,  as  their  day 
Slowly  fades  to  night  away, 

John  Marshall. 


AMERICA 

MY  country,  't  is  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty. 
Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died. 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 
Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee. 
Land  of  the  noble  free, — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills. 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 


^56  SELECTED    READINGS 

Let  inu.sic  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees. 

Sweet  freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake. 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break,  — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  father's  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  Thee  I  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light, 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God  our  King. 

S.  F.  Smith. 

THE    STAR-SPANGLED    BANNER 

OH,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so    proudly   we   hailed   at  the   twilight's   last 
gleaming  ?  — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  clouds  of 
the  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing! 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air. 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there; 
0  !   say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 

WTiere  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep. 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam. 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream ; 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner ;   0  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollu- 
tion. 


POETRY  257 

No  refuge  can  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  teiTor  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

0 !   thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation ! 
Blest  with  vicf  ry  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a 
nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just. 
And  this  be  our  motto  —  "  In  God  is  our  trust: " 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Feancis  Scott  Key. 

HOME,    SWEET    HOME! 

MID  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like  home ; 
A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
A\Tiich,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home ! 
There 's  no  place  like  Home !  there  '&  no  place  like  Home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ; 

0  !  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ! 

The  birds  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my  call,  — 

Give  me  them,  —  and  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all ! 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home ! 
There 's  no  place  like  Home !   there 's  no  place  like  Home ! 

How  sweet 't  is  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile. 
And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile ! 
Let  others  delight  'mid  new  pleasures  to  roam, 
But  give  me,  oh,  give  me,  the  pleasures  of  home ! 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home  ! 
There 's  no  place  like  Home !   there 's  no  place  like  Home ! 

To  thee  I  '11  return,  overburdened  with  care ; 
The  heart's  dearest  solace  will  smile  on  me  there; 
No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam; 
P-e  it  ever  so  humble,  there 's  no  place  like  home. 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home  I 
There's  no  place  like  Home!   there's  no  place  like  Home  I 

John  Hovs^aud  Payne. 


258  SELECTED   READINGS 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

WEAEY  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forward,  forward,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm'd  me. 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end ! 

"  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you. 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you !  " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven. 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 

In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer: 

"  Wouldst  thou  &e  as  these  are?    Live  as  they. 

"  UnafPrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see. 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differino^  soul. 


^o 


"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardfu] 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

0  air-born  voice !  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear : 
"  Resolve  to  be  thyself ;   and  know  that  he- 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery !  " 

Matthew  Arnold. 


POETRY  '  259 


TO    SHAKESPEARE'S    LOVE 

O  SWEET  dead  woman,  who  were  you 
For  whom  my  Shakespeare  sighed 
In  sonnets  that  would  hold  you  true 
Although  you  lied? 

In  lips  that  burned  upon  your  own 

Did  you  not  feel  his  breath 
Melodious  wdth  Juliet's  moan 

And  Eg}'pfs  death? 

Perhaps  his  dreajn  within  your  arms 

Gave  Venus  back  to  Greece, 
Or  consecrated  wanton  charms 

To  pure  Lucrece. 

Alas,  we  may  not  know  your  name. 

Your  station  high  or  low ; 
We  hold  the  dead  secure  from  blame ; 

Yet  this  I  know : 

Your  passion  found  some  common  clod 

For  your  embrace  more  meet; 
The  heart  that  h3Tnned  a  world 

You  trod  beneath  your  feet. 

And  still  he  held  His  poet's  pen 

To  the  ideal  true  — 
Lo,  he  created  Imogene 

And  God  made  you. 

Edward  J.  McPhelim. 


CLEOPATRA 

HEEE,  Charmian,  take  my  bracelets; 
They  bar  with  a  purple  stain 
My  arms;   turn  over  my  pillows — • 

They  are  hot  where  I  have  lain: 
Open  the  lattice  wider, 

A  gauze  o'er  my  bosom  throw, 
And  let  me  inhale  the  odors 
That  over  the  garden  blow. 


260  SELECTED   READINGS  i 

I  dreamed  I  was  with  my  Antony,  ) 

And  in  his  arms  I  lay ;  i 

Ah,  me !  the  vision  has  vanished  —  | 

The  music  has  died  away :  j 

The  flame  and  the  perfume  have  perished  —  ; 

As  this  spiced  aromatic  pastille  j 

That  wound  the  blue  smoke  of  its  odor  »      \ 

Is  now  but  an  ashy  hill.  j 

Scatter  upon  me  rose  leaves,  ' 

They  cool  me  after  my  sleep,  .   ' 

And  with  sandal  odors  fan  me  I 

Till  into  my  veins  they  creep ; 
Eeach  down  the  lute,  and  play  me  I 

A  melancholy  tune,  j 

To  rhyme  with  the  dream  that  has  vanished  | 

And  the  slumbering  afternoon.  j 

There,  drowsing  in  golden  sunlight,  ; 

Loiters  the  slow,  smooth  Nile,  I 

Through  slender  papyri,  that  cover  i 

The  wary  crocodile. 

The  lotus  lolls  on  the  water,  ' 

And  opens  its  heart  of  gold,  j 
And  over  its  broad  leaf  pavement                             .         j 

Never  a  ripple  is  rolled.  I 

The  twilight  breeze  is  too  lazy  ! 

Those  feathery  palms  to  wave,  J 

And  yon  little  cloud  is  as  motionless  | 

As  a  stone  above  a  grave.  \ 

I 

Ah,  me !  this  lifeless  nature 

Oppresses  my  heart  and  brain ! 
Oh !   for  a  storm  and  thunder  —  \ 

For  lightning  and  wild  fierce  rain !  ! 

Fling  do-wTi  that  lute  —  I  hate  it !  I 

Take  rather  his  buckler  and  sword,  \ 

And  crash  and  clash  them  together 

Till  this  sleeping  world  is  stirred.  | 

Hark  !  to  my  Indian  beauty  —  j 

My  cockatoo,  creamy  white,  \ 

"With  roses  under  his  feathers  —  i 
That  flashes  across  the  light. 


POETRY  261 

Look !    Listen !   as  backward  and  forv\'ard 

To  his  hoop  of  gold  he  clings, 
How  he  trembles  with  crest  uplifted, 

And  shrieks  as  he  madly  swings ! 
Oh,  cockatoo,  shriek  for  Antony ! 

Cry,  "  Come,  my  love,  come  home !  " 
Shriek,  "  Antony !   Antony  !   Antony !  " 

Till  he  hears  you  even  in  Rome. 

There  —  leave  me,  and  take  from  my  chamber 

That  stupid  little  gazelle, 
"With  its  bright  black  eyes  so  meaningless. 

And  its  silly  tinkling  bell ! 
Take  him,  —  my  nerves  he  vexes  — 

The  thing  without  blood  or  brain. 
Or,  by  the  body  of  Isis, 

i  '11  snap  his  thin  neck  in  twain ! 

Leave  me  to  gaze  on  the  landscape 

Mistily  stretching  away, 
"Where  the  afternoon's  opaline  tremors 

O'er  the  mountains  quivering  play ; 
Till  the  fiercer  splendor  of  sunset 

Pours  from  the  west  its  fire. 
And  melted,  as  in  a  crucible. 

Their  earthly  forms  expire ; 
And  the  bald  blear  skull  of  the  desert 

With  glowing  mountains  is  crowned. 
That  burning  like  molten  jewels 

Circle  its  temples  round. 

I  will  lie  and  dream  of  the  past  time, 

^ons  of  thought  away. 
And  through  the  jungle  of  memory 

Loosen  my  fancy  to  play ; 
"Wlion,  a  smooth  and  velvety  tiger. 

Ribbed  with  yellow  and  black. 
Supple  and  cushion-footed 

T  wandered,  where  never  the  track 
Of  a  humnn  creatnre  had  rustled 

The  silence  of  mighty  woods, 
And,  fierce  in  a  tyrannous  freedom. 

I  knew  but  the  law  of  my  moods. 


2G2  SELECTED   READINGS 

The  elephant,  trumpeting,  started. 

When  he  heard  my  footstep  near. 
And  the  spotted  giraffes  fled  wildly 

In  a  yellow  cloud  of  fear. 
I  sucked  in  the  noontide  splendor. 

Quivering  along  the  glade. 
Or  yawning,  panting,  and  dreaming. 

Basked  in  the  tamarisk  shade, 
Till  I  heard  my  wild  mate  roaring, 

As  the  shadows  of  night  came  on. 
To  brood  in  the  trees'  thick  branches, 

And  the  shadow  of  sleep  was  gone ; 
Then  I  roused,  and  roared  in  my  answer, 

And  unsheathed  from  my  cushioned  feet 
My  cui-ving  claws,  and  stretched  me, 

And  wandered  my  mate  to  greet. 
We  toyed  in  the  amber  moonlight, 

Upon  the  warm  flat  sand, 
And  struck  at  each  other  our  massive  arms  — 

How  powerful  he  was  and  grand ! 

His  yellow  eyes  flashed  fiercely 

As  he  crouched  and  gazed  at  me, 
And  his  quivering  tail,  like  a  serpent. 

Twitched  curving  nervously. 
Then  like  a  storm  he  seized  me. 

With  a  wild  triumphant  cry. 
And  we  met,  as  two  clouds  in  heaven 

Wlien  the  thunders  before  them  fly. 
We  grappled  and  struggled  together. 

For  his  love  like  his  rage  was  rude ; 
And  his  teeth  in  the  swelling  folds  of  my  neck 

At  times,  in  our  play,  drew  blood. 

Often  another  suitor  — 

For  I  was  flexile  and  fair  — 
Fought  for  me  in  the  moonlight. 

While  I  lay  couching  there. 
Till  his  blood  was  drained  by  the  desert; 

And,  ruffled  with  triumph  and  power. 
He  licked  me  and  lay  beside  me 

To  breathe  him  a  vast  half-hour. 


POETRY  £63 

Then  down  to  the  fountain  we  loitered. 

Where  the  antelopes  come  to  drink; 
Like  a  bolt  we  sprang  upon  them. 

Ere  they  had  time  to  shrink. 
We  drank  their  blood  and  crushed  them, 

And  tore  them  limb  from  limb, 
And  the  hungriest  lion  doubted 

Ere  he  disputed  with  him. 

That  was  a  life  to  live  for ! 

Xot  this  weak  human  life, 
With  its  frivolous  bloodless  passions, 

Its  poor  and  petty  strife! 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  hero ! 

The  shadows  of  twilight  grow. 
And  the  tiger's  ancient  fierceness 

In  my  veins  begins  to  flow. 
Come  not  cringing  to  sue  me ! 

Take  me  with  triumph  and  power, 
As  a  warrior  storms  a  fortress, 

I  will  not  shrink  or  cower. 
Come,  as  you  c^me  in  the  desert. 

Ere  we  were  women  and  men. 
When  the  tiger  passions  were  in  us, 

And  love  as  you  loved  me  then! 

W.  W.  Story. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    READING    GAOL 

HE  did  not  wear  his  scarlet  coat, 
For  blood  and  wine  are  red, 
And  blood  and  wine  were  on  his  hands 

When  they  found  him  with  the  dead, 
The  poor  dead  woman  whom  he  loved. 
And  murdered  in  her  bed. 

He  walked  amongst  the  Trial  Men 

In  a  suit  of  shabby  gray; 
A  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head, 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay; 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

So  ^^-istfully  at  tlie  day. 


264  SELECTED   READINGS 

) 
I 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked 

With  such  a  wistful  eye  j 

Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue  | 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky,  ,  j 
And  at  every  drifting  cloud  that  went 

With  sails  of  silver  by.  ] 

I  walked,  with  other  souls  in  pain,  ' 

Within  another  ring. 

And  was  wondering  if  the  man  had  done  ' 

A  great  or  little  thing,  j 

When  a  voice  behind  me  whispered  low,  j 
"  That  fellow  's  got  to  swing." 

Dear  Christ!   the  very  prison  walls  I 

Suddenly  seemed  to  reel,  1 

And  the  sky  above  my  head  became  | 
Like  a  casque  of  scorching  steel; 

And,  though  I  was  a  soul  in  pain,  ! 

My  pain  I  could  not  feel.  j 

i 
I  only  knew  what  hunted  thought  i 

Quickened  his  step,  and  why  '*, 

He  looked  upon  the  garish  day  i 

With  such  a  wistful  eye ;  •         j 

The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved,  j 

And  so  he  had  to  die. 

Yet  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 

By  each  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look. 

Some  with  a  flattering  word, 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss. 

The  brave  man  with  a  sword ! 

Some  kill  their  love  when  they  are  young, 

And  some  when  they  are  old; 
Some  strangle  with  the  hands  of  Lust, 

Some  with  the  hands  of  Gold: 
The  kindest  use  a  knife,  because 

The  dead  so  soon  grow  cold. 


POETRY  265 

Some  love  too  little,  some  too  long. 

Some  sell,  and  others  buy; 
Some  do  the  deed  with  many  tears. 

And  some  without  a  sigh : 
For  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves, 

Yet  each  man  does  not  die. 

He  does  not  die  a  death  of  shame 

On  a  day  of  dark  disgrace, 
Nor  have  a  noose  about  his  neck, 

Nor  a  cloth  upon  his  face, 
Nor  drop  feet  foremost  through  the  floor 

Into  an  empty  space. 

He  does  not  sit  with  silent  men 

Who  watch  him  night  and  day ; 
Wlio  watch  him  when  he  tries  to  weep. 

And  when  he  tries  to  pray; 
Wlio  watch  him  lest  himself  should  rob 

The  prison  of  its  prey. 

He  does  not  wake  at  dawn  to  see 

Dread  figures  throng  his  room, 
The  shivering  Chaplain  robed  in  white. 

The  Sheriff  stem  with  gloom, 
And  the  Governor  all  in  shiny  black. 

With  the  yellow  face  of  Doom. 

He  does  not  rise  in  piteous  haste 

To  put  on  convict-clothes. 
While  some  coarse-mouthed  Doctor  gloats,  and  notes 

Each  new  and  nerve-twitched  pose. 
Fingering  a  watch  whose  little  ticks 

Are  like  horrible  hammer-blows. 


He  does  not  know  that  sickening  thirst 
That  sands  one's  throat,  before 

The  hangman  with  his  gardener's  gloves 
Slips  tlirough  the  padded  door. 

And  binds  one  with  three  leathern  thongs, 
That  the  throat  may  thirst  no  more. 


^6Q  SELECTED   READINGS 

He  does  not  bend  his  head  to  hear 
The  Burial  OfEce  read, 

Nor,  while  the  terror  of  his  soul 
Tells  him  he  is  not  dead, 

Cross  his  own  coffin,  as  he  moves 
Into  the  hideous  shed. 


He  does  not  stare  upon  the  air  I 

Through  a  little  roof  of  glass:  i 

He  does  not  pray  with  lips  of  clay  \ 

For  his  agony  to  pass;  j 

Nor  feel  upon  his  shuddering  cheek  j 

The  kiss  of  Caiaphas.  i 

I 

Six  weeks  our  guardsman  walked  the  yard,  , 

In  the  suit  of  shabby  gray ;  '; 

His  cricket  cap  was  on  his  head,  ,: 

And  his  step  seemed  light  and  gay,  i 

But  I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked  .  ) 

So  wistfully  at  the  day.  j 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  looked  i 

With  such  a  wistful  eye  \ 

Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  sky, 

And  at  every  wandering  cloud  that  trailed  \ 

Its  ravelled  fleeces  by.  ' 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands,  as  do  \ 

Those  witless  men  who  dare  i 

To  try  to  rear  the  changeling  Hope  j 

In  the  cave  of  black  Despair:  i 

He  only  looked  upon  the  sun,  < 

And  drank  the  morning  air.  ,1 

He  did  not  wring  his  hands  nor  weep,  I 

ISTor  did  he  peek  or  pine, 
But  he  drank  the  air  as  though  it  held 

Some  healthful  anodyne ; 
With  open  mouth  he  drank  the  sun 

As  though  it  had  been  wine ! 

i 

''i 


POETRY  267 

And  I  and  all  the  souls  in  pain. 

Who  tramped  the  other  ring, 
Forgot  if  we  ourselves  had  done 

A  great  or  little  thing, 
And  watched  with  gaze  of  dull  amaze 

The  man  who  had  to  swing.  j 

And  strange  it  was  to  think  that  he 

With  a  step  so  light  and  gay,  , 

And  strange  it  was  to  see  him  look  j 

So  wistfully  at  the  day,  i 

And  strange  it  was  to  think  that  he 

Had  such  a  debt  to  pay. 

•  •  •  •  •  j 

At  last  the  dead  man  walked  no  more 

Amongst  the  Trial  Men, 
And  I  knew  that  he  was  standing  up 

In  the  black  dock's  dreadful  pen,  ; 

And  that  never  would  I  see  his  face 

In  God's  sweet  world  again. 

•  •  •  *  • 

In  Eeading  gaol  by  Eeading  town 

There  is  a  pit  of  shame,  i 

And  in  it  lies  a  wretched  man 

Eaten  by  teeth  of  flame, 
In  a  burning  winding-sheet  he  lies, 

And  his  grave  has  got  no  name. 

And  there,  till  Christ  call  forth  the  dead,  | 

In  silence  let  him  lie:  j 

No  need  to  waste  the  foolish  tear,  I 

Or  heave  the  windy  sigh:  i 

The  man  had  killed  the  thing  he  loved,  : 

And  so  he  had  to  die.  \ 

And  all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love,  ] 

By  all  let  this  be  heard, 
Some  do  it  with  a  bitter  look, 

Some  with  a  flattering  word. 
The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss,  | 

Tbe  brave  man  with  a  sword  I  \ 

Oscar  Wilde.  \ 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan.  j 


IV 
VERSE 


IV  —  VERSE 


OLD    CHUMS* 

IS  it  you,  Jack  ?    Old  boy,  is  it  really  you  ? 
1  should  n't  have  known  3'ou  but  that  I  was  told 
You  might  be  expected ;  —  pray,  how  do  you  do  ? 
But  what,  under  heavens,  has  made  you  so  old  ? 

Your  hair !  why,  you  've  only  a  little  gray  fuzz  ! 

And  your  beard's  white!    but  that  can  be  beautifully 
dyed ; 
And  your  legs  are  n't  but  just  half  as  long  as  they  was ; 

And  then  —  stars  and  garters !   your  vest  is  so  wide. 

Is  this  your  hand  ?    Lord,  how  I  envied  you  that 

In  the  time  of  our  courting,  —  so  soft,  and  so  small. 

And  now  it  is  callous  inside,  and  so  fat,  — 

Well,  you  beat  the  very  old  deuce,  that  is  all. 

Turn  round !    let  me  look  at  you  !    is  n't  it  odd 

How  strange  in  a  few  years  a  fellow's  chum  grows ! 

Your  eye  is  shrunk  up  like  a  bean  in  a  pod, 

And  what  are  those  lines  branching  out  from  your  nose  ? 

Your  back  has  gone  up  and  your  shoulders  gone  do^\Ti, 
And  all  the  old  roses  are  under  the  plough ; 

Why,  Jack,  if  we  'd  happened  to  meet  about  town, 
I  would  n't  have  known  you  from  Adam,  I  vow ! 

You  've  had  trouble,  have  you  ?     I  'm  sorrv' ;    but,  John, 
All  trouble  sits  lightly  at  your  time  of  life. 

How's  Billy,  my  namesake?    You  don't  say  he's  gone 

To  the  war,  John,  and  that  you  have  buried  your  wife  ? 

Poor  Katherine !    so  she  has  left  you  —  ah  me ! 

I  thought  she  would  live  to  be  fifty,  or  more. 
"WTiat  is  it  you  tell  me  ?    She  was  fifty-three ! 

0  no.  Jack !   she  was  n't  so  much  by  a  score. 

Well,  there  's  little  Katy,  — was  that  her  name,  John? 

She  '11  rule  your  house  one  of  these  days  like  a  queen. 
That  bnby  !   good  Lord !   is  she  married  and  gone  ? 

With  a  Jack  ten  years  old !   and  a  Katy  fourteen ! 

•  By  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Co. 


272  SELECTED    READINGS 

Then  I  give  it  up !    Why,  you  're  younger  than  I 

By  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  to  think  you  've  come  back 

A  sober  old  graybeard,  just  ready  to  die ! 

I  dont  understand  how  it  is,  —  do  you.  Jack ? 

I  Ve  got  all  my  faculties  yet,  sound  and  bright ; 

Slight  failure  my  eyes  are  beginning  to  hint; 
But  still,  with  my  spectacles  on,  and  a  light 

'Twixt  them  and  the  page,  I  can  read  any  print. 

My  hearing  is  dull,  and  my  leg  is  more  spare, 

Perhaps,  than  it  was  when  I  beat  you  at  ball ; 

My  breath  gives  out,  too,  if  I  go  up  a  stair,  — 

But  nothing  worth  mentioning,  nothing  at  all! 

My  hair  is  just  turning  a  little,  you  see, 

And  lately  I  've  put  on  a  broader-brimmed  hat 
Than  I  wore  at  your  wedding,  but  you  will  agree. 
Old  fellow,  I  look  all  the  better  for  that. 

I  'm  sometimes  a  little  rheumatic,  't  is  true. 

And  my  nose  is  n't  quite  on  a  straight  line,  they  say ; 

For  all  that,  I  don't  thirds  I  've  changed  much,  do  you  ? 
And  I  don't  feel  a  day  older,  Jack  —  not  a  day. 

Alice  Gary. 


THE    OLD    COAT 

OLD  coat,  for  some  three  or  four  seasons 
We've  been  jolly  comrades,  but  now 
We  part,  old  companion,  forever; 

To  fate,  and  the  fashion,  I  bow. 
You  'd  look  well  enough  at  a  dinner, 

I  'd  wear  you  with  pride  at  a  ball ; 
But  I  'm  dressing  to-night  for  a  wedding  — 
My  own  —  and  you  'd  not  do  at  all. 

You  've  too  many  wine  stains  about  you. 

You  're  scented  too  much  with  cigars, 
When  the  gas-light  shines  full  on  your  collar 

It  glitters  with  myriad  stars. 
That  would  n't  look  well  at  my  wedding ; 

They'd  seem  inappropriate  there  — 
Nell  does  n't  use  diamond  powder. 

She  tells  me  it  ruins  the  hair. 


VERSE  273 

Yon  've  been  ont  on  Cozzen's  piazza 

Too  late,  when  the  evenings  were  damp, 
"WTien  the  moonbeams  were  silvering  Cro'nest, 

And  the  lights  were  all  out  in  the  camp. 
You  've  rested  on  highly-oiled  stairways 

Too  often,  when  sweet  eyes  were  bright, 
And  somebody's  ball  dress  —  not  ISTellie's  — 

Flowed  'round  you  in  rivers  of  wliite. 

There  's  a  reprobate  looseness  about  you ; 

Should  I  wear  3'ou  to-night,  I  believe. 
As  I  come  with  my  bride  from  the  altar. 

You  'd  laugh  in  your  wicked  old  sleeve. 
When  you  felt  there  the  tremulous  pressure 

Of  her  hand  in  its  delicate  glove, 
That  is  telling  me  shyly,  but  proudly. 

Her  trust  is  as  deep  as  her  love. 

So,  go  to  your  grave  in  the  wardrobe. 

And  furnish  a  feast  for  the  moth, 
Nell's  glove  shall  betray  its  sweet  secrets 

To  younger,  more  innocent  cloth. 
'T  is  time  to  put  on  your  successor  — 

It's  made  in  a  fashion  that's  new; 
Old  coat,  I  'm  afraid  it  will  never 

Sit  as  easily  on  me  as  you. 

George  Bakek. 

THE    DEAD    PUSSY    CAT 

YOU 'S  as  stiff  an'  as  cold  as  a  stone, 
Little  cat! 
Dey  's  done  frowed  out  and  left  you  alone. 

Little  cat! 
I 's  a  strokin'  you's  fur. 
But  you  don't  never  purr, 
Nor  hump  up  any  where. 

Little  cat  — 

W'y  is  dat? 
Is  you's  purrin'  and  humpin'  up  done? 

An'  w'y  fer  is  your  lettle  foot  tied. 

Little  cat? 
Did  dey  pizen  you's  tummick  inside. 

Little  cat? 
IS 


274  SELECTED    READINGS 

Did  dey  pound  you  wif  bricks 
Or  wif  big  nasty  sticks, 
Or  abuse  you  wif  kicks, 

Little  cat? 

Tell  me  dat. 
Did  dey  holler  w'enever  you  cwied  ? 

Did  it  hurt  very  bad  w'en  you  died, 

Little  cat? 
Oh !  w'y  did  n't  you  wun  off  an'  hide, 

Little  cat? 
I  is  wet  in  my  eyes  — 
'Cause  I  most  always  cwise 
Wen  a  pussy  cat  dies. 

Little  cat! 

Tink  of  dat. 
An'  I 's  awfully  solly  besides. 

Dest  lay  still  dere  down  in  de  soft  gwoun, 

Little  cat, 
Wile  I  tucks  de  gween  gwass  all  awoun' 

Little  cat. 
Dey  can't  hurt  you  no  more 
Wen  you 's  tired  an'  so  sore. 
Dest  sleep  twiet,  you  pore 

Little  cat, 

Wif  a  pat, 
An'  fordet  all  de  kicks  of  de  town. 

Anonymous. 

GRAN'MA    AL'US    DOES 

I  WANTS  to  mend  my  wagon, 
And  has  to  have  some  nails. 
Just  two,  free  will  be  plenty; 

We  're  goin'  to  haul  our  rails. 
The  splendidest  cob  fences 

We  're  makin',  ever  was  ! 
I  wis'  you  'd  help  me  find  'em  —  ' 
Gran'ma  al'us  does. 

My  horse's  name  is  Betsey; 

She  jumped  and  broke  her  head, 
I  put  her  in  the  stable 

And  fed  her  milk  and  bread. 


VERSE 

The  stable  's  in  the  parlor  — 
We  did  n't  make  no  muss ; 

I  wis'  you  'd  let  it  stay  there  — 
Gran'ma  al'us  does. 

I 's  goin'  to  the  cornfield 

To  ride  on  Charlie's  plough, 
I  'spect  he'd  like  to  have  me; 

I  wants  to  go  right  now. 
Oh,  won't  I  "  gee-up  "  awful, 

And  "  whoa  "  like  Charlie  whoas ! 
I  wis'  you  would  n't  bozzer  — 

Gran'ma  never  does, 

I  wants  some  bread  and  butter. 

I 's  hungry,  worstest  kind. 
But  Freddy  mustn't  have  none, 

'Cause  he  would  n't  mind. 
Put  plenty  sugar  on  it ; 

I  '11  tell  you  what  I  knows : 
It 's  right  to  put  on  sugar  — 

Gran'ma  al'us  does. 


275 


A.  H.  PoE. 


TALKIN'    'BOUT    TROUBLE 

"rpHIS  world's  so  full  o'  trouble," 
X      I  hear  so  many  say, 
An'  I  wonder  if  it  really  is, 
Or  only  seems  that  way. 
An'  I  wonder  if  the  folks  who  find 
This  world  so  very  bad, 
Are  lookin'  witli  their  smilin'  eyes. 
Or  eyes  jes'  lookin'  sad. 

I  wonder  if  they  're  lookin'  out 
To  see  what  they  can  do 
By  thinkin'  —  not  about  themselves - 
But  thinkin'  some  'bout  you  ; 
An'  T  wonder  if  they  ever  tried 
To  git  braced  up  with  this  — 
A-lookin'  'round  to  see  how  much 
Of  troubles  they  could  miss? 


■ 

{ 

276  SELECTED   READINGS  j 

An'  have  you  ever  thought  about  | 

The  greatness  of  a  smile  ?  i 

Wall,  if  you  've  not,  it  might  be  well  ' 

To  try  it  for  a  while. 

Because  a  smile  will  do  you  good  ■ 

No  matter  where  you  go,  j 

For  frowns  are  mighty  common  things,  ; 

An'  we  all  know  that 's  so  !  ' 

But  say,  can  anybody  tell       _  , 

Why  smiles  should  come  so  high,  _  '< 

An'  frowns  should  be  such  common  things, 

Beneath  the  selfsame  sky  ?  j 

If  folks  could  only  know  how  much  ] 

They  lose  by  lookin'  sad,  j 

They  'd  all  cheer  up  an'  spend  their  time  i 

A-tryin'  to  look  glad.  j 

For  every  time  you  hide  a  sigh  [ 

Behind  a  smilin'  face,  ' 

You  've  took  a  burden  from  your  soul,  ; 

An'  give  the  Lord  a  place.  i 

An'  He 's  the  one  who  loves  to  see  I 

His  children  lookin'  gay,  j 

An'  bein'  happy  in  His  grace,  j 

An'  makin'  good  His  way. 

An'  if  you  think  you  've  had  too  much,  ] 

An'  things  ain't  even  now,  i 

Maybe  you  '11  find  out  by  and  by  i 

The  "  wherefor  an'  the  how." 

An'  I  believe,  before  you  die,  i 

You  '11  see  't  was  for  the  best,  j 

An'  that  instead  o'  bein'  wronged 

That  mostly  you  've  been  blest ;  j 

An'  that  your  troubles  made  you  big  ' 

An'  char'table  an'  strong,  i 

An'  'stead  of  bein'  setbacks  | 

They  've  helped  you  git  along ; 

An'' if  you  hadn't  had 'em  | 

You  could  never  understood ; 

An'  now  I  ask  you,  my  good  friends. 

Do  you  really  think  you  could? 

Carrie  Jacobs-Bond.  j 


VERSE  277 


THE    UNEXPECTED 

COME,  listen,  little  boys  and  girls,  : 

^A^lile  I  a  tale  relate  j 

About  a  little  boy  named  Tom,  j 

Whose  age  was  almost  eight.  | 


Tom  was  a  headstrong  kind  of  boy, 

Who  thought  it  jolly  fun 
To  scare  his  mother  half  to  death 

By  blowing  in  a  gun. 

One  day  a  stranger  came  that  way. 

As  strangers  oft  had  done; 
But  this  one  left  behind  the  door 

A  double-barrel  gun. 

"  Ha,  ha,"  quoth  Tom,  the  naughty  boy, 

"  I  never  saw  one  such ; 
If  single  barrels  make  such  sport. 

This  should  make  twice  as  much." 

So  Tommy  took  the  double  gun 

Straight  to  his  mother  fast; 
"  It  is  n't  loaded,  Maw,"  he  yelled. 

And  blew  a  mighty  blast. 

•  •••••• 

And  Tommy  —  where  is  Tommy  now  ? 

A  halo  round  his  head? 
Not  much.    It  was  n't  loaded,  just 

As  little  Tommy  said. 

Will  J.  Lampton. 

OUT    OF    ARCADIA 

THE  countr}'  boy  was  in  love,  and  3'Oung, 
And  he  urged  his  cause  with  an  eager  tongue ; 
But  the  maiden  bade  him  work  and  wait: 
She  wanted  a  man  who  was  strong  and  great. 

He  loved  his  home  and  the  country  life, 

And  he  wanted  a  tender  little  wife; 

He  wished  to  live  in  peace  and  ease, 

In  the  shade  of  the  spreading  old  elm  trees. 


278  SELECTED    READINGS  ; 

But  the  maiden  bade  him  go  and  win  i 

A  name  she  could  prize  and  glory  in.  i 

She  said  she  would  wait  and  wed  him  when  ! 

He  made  his  place  in  the  ranks  of  men.  ! 

Then  the  boy  plunged  into  the  city's  roar,  j 

And  he  learned  the  market's  sordid  lore,  I 

And  he  learned  that  life  is  an  awful  fight,  ! 

Where  the  wounded  fall  to  the  left  and  right. 

But  on  their  bodies  he  slowly  rose, 

And  he  gained  new  strength  from  his  vanquished  foes :  ' 

As  he  overcame  them  and  beat  them  down,  / 

He  grew  in  wealth  and  in  wide  renown.  ' 

But  his  heart  was  cold.    He  forgot  to  feel.  ! 
His  chilling  smile  had  the  glow  of  steel. 

His  brain  grew  keen  and  his  face  grew  hard,  ; 

As  he  stood  a  victor,  seamed  and  scarred.  I 

Then  his  words  were  treasured  throughout  the  State,  j 

And  all  men  followed  and  called  him  great.  \ 

But  he  smiled  when  he  thought  of  the  country  boy,  | 

And  he  sneered  at  love  as  a  childish  toy. 

Harry  Eomaine. 


MAMMY'S    LULLABY 

SLEEP,  mah  li'l,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo? 
Sunset  still  a-shinin'  in  de  wes' ; 
Sky  am  full  o'  windehs  and  de  stahs  am  peepin'  froO' 
Eb'r}'t'ing  but  mammy's  lamb  at  res'. 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Eas'lan', 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Souf  — 
See  dat  dove  a-comin'  wif  a  olive  in  'is  mouf ! 
Angel  hahps  a-hummin', 
Angel  banjos  strummin'  — 
Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo  ? 

Cricket  fiddleh  scrapin'  off  de  rozzum  f'um  'is  bow, 

"VMiippo'will  a-mo'nin  on  a  lawg ; 
Moon  ez  pale  ez  hit  kin  be  a-risin'  mighty  slow  — 

Stahtled  at  de  bahkin'  ob  de  dawg; 


VERSE  ^79 

Swing  de  baby  EasVay, 
Swing  de  baby  Wes', 
Swin  'im  to'ds  de  Souflan',  whah  de  melon  grow  de  bes' ! 
Angel  singers  singin', 
Angel  bells  a-ringin', 
Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  manuny  coo? 

Eyelids  des  a-droopin'  li'l  loweh  all  de  w'ile, 

Undeli  lip  a-saggin'  des  a  mite; 
Li'l  baby  toofies  showin'  so't  o'  lak  a  smile, 
Whiteh  dan  de  snow,  or  des  ez  white. 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Xo'flan'  — 
Swing  'im  to'ds  de  Eas'  — 
"Woolly  cloud  a-coniin'  fo'  t'  wrap  'im  in  'is  fleece! 
Angel  ban'  a-playin'  — 
Whut  dat  music  sayin'? 
"  Sleep,  mah  li'l  pigeon,  don'  yo'  heah  yo'  mammy  coo  ?  " 

Strickland  W.  Gillilan. 


KITTY    OF    COLERAINE 

AS  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 
.ZjL     With  a  pitcher  of  milk,  from  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 
When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  it  tumbled, 
And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  plain. 

"  0,  what  shall  I  do  now  ?  —  't  was  looking  at  you  now ! 

Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I  '11  ne'er  meet  again ! 
'T  was  the  pride  of  my  dairy :   0  Barney  M'Cleary ! 

You  're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine." 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her, 

That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain. 

A  kiss  then  I  gave  her;   and  ere  I  did  leave  her, 

She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she  'd  break  it  again. 

'T  was  hay-making  season  —  I  can't  tell  the  reason  — • 
Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  'tis  plain; 

For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 

The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 

Charles  Dawson  Shanlt. 


280  SELECTED   READINGS 


TIIE  LITTLE   CHURCH  ROUND  THE   CORNER  I 

i 

"  T>  RING  him  not  here,  where  our  sainted  feet  i 

J3     Are  treading  the  path  to  glory ;  'j 
Bring  him  not  here,  where  our  Saviour  sweet 

Eepeats  for  us  his  story.  ' 
Go,  take  him  where  such  things  are  done 

(For  he  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  scorner),  j 

To  where  they  have  room,  for  we  have  none,  —  ; 

To  the  little  church  round  the  comer."  i 

■I 

So  spake  the  holy  man  of  God,  ! 

Of  another  man,  his  brother, 
Whose  cold  remains,  ere  they  sought  the  sod, 
Had  only  asked  that  a  Christian  rite  j 

Might  be  read  above  them  by  one  whose  light  f 

Was,  "  Brethren,  love  one  another  " ;  j 

Had  only  asked  that  a  prayer  be  read  ' 

Ere  his  flesh  went  down  to  join  the  dead,  j 

While  his  spirit  looked  with  suppliant  eyes,  I 

Searching  for  God  throughout  the  skies.  I 

But  the  priest  frowned  "  No,"  and  his  brow  was  bare  j 

Of  love  in  the  sight  of  the  mourner,  j 

And  they  looked  for  Christ  and  found  him  —  where  ?  " 

In  that  little  church  round  the  comer.  I 

\ 

Ah !   well,  God  grant  when,  with  aching  feet,  ! 

We  tread  life's  last  few  paces,  ( 

That  we  may  hear  some  accents  sweet,  ; 

And  kiss,  to  the  end,  fond  faces.  \ 

God  grant  that  this  tired  flesh  may  rest  ! 

('Mid  many  a  musing  mourner). 

While  the  sermon  is  preached  and  the  rites  are  read  ! 

In  no  church  where  the  heart  of  love  is  dead,  ■ 

And  the  pastor  's  a  pious  prig  at  best,  j 

But  in  some  small  nook  where  God 's  confessed,  —  i 

Some  little  church  round  the  comer.  ■ 

A.  E.  Lancaster.  j 


VERSE  281 


ANNE    HATHAWAY 

ONCE  on  a  time,  when  jewels  flashed, 
And  moonlit  fountains  softly  splashed, 
And  all  the  air  was  sweet  and  bright 
With  music,  mirth,  and  deft  delight, 
A  courtly  dame  drew,  laughing,  near 

A  poet  —  greatest  of  his  time, 
And  chirped  a  question  in  his  ear. 

With  voice  like  silver  bells  in  chime: 
"  Grood  Mr.  Shakespeare,  I  would  know 

The  name  thy  lady  bore,  in  sooth, 
Ere  tliine.     Nay,  little  time  ago 

It  was  —  for  we  still  mark  her  youth ; 
Some  highborn  name,  I  trow,  and  yet, 
Altho'  I've  heard  it,  I  forget." 
Then  answered  he,  with  dignity. 
Yet  blithely  —  for  the  hour  was  gay  — 
"  My  lady's  name  —  Anne  Hathaway." 

"  And  good,  sweet  sir,"  the  dame  pursued, 
Too  fair  and  winsome  to  be  rude, 
"  'T  is  whispered  here  and  whispered  there. 
By  doughty  knights  and  ladies  fair. 
That  —  that  —  well,  that  her  royal  lord 

Does  e'en  obey  her  lightest  word. 
Now,  my  good  spouse  —  I  pledge  my  word  — 

Tho'  loving  well  doth  heed  me  ill; 
How  art  thou  conquered,  prithee,  tell," 

She  plciided  with  her  pretty  frown ; 
I  fain  would  know  what  mighty  spell 

Can  bring  a  haughty  husband  down." 
She  ceased,  and  raised  her  eager  face 
To  his,  with  laughing,  plaintive  grace. 
Then  answered  he,  with  dignity, 
Yet  blithely,  —  for  the  hour  was  gay,  — 
"  Ah,  lady,  I  can  only  say 
Her  name  again  —  Anne  Hath-a-way." 

Anontmous. 


<( 


282  SELECTED    READINGS 


THE    GATE  1 

I  ! 

I 

AGATE.  I 

Two  lovers.  j 
A  father  mad. 

The  hour  is  late.  \ 
Two  hearts  are  glad. 

II 


A  growl. 
A  leap. 
A  nip. 
A  tear. 

A  cry. 
A  sigh. 
And  then  — 

A  swear. 

Ill 

FiNAT.R 

A  gate. 
No  lovers. 

A  father  glad. 

A  dog  triumphant. 
A  maiden  sad. 

If  it  took  two  hours  to  say  good-night, 

It  served  him  right  if  the  dog 

did  bite. 

Bessie  Cahn, 

Moral:     If  it  took  two  hours  to  sav  srood-nis'ht.  \ 


"SPACIALLY   JIM"* 

IWUS  mighty  good-lookin'  when  I  was  young, 
Peert  an'  black-eyed  an'  slim, 
With  fellers  a-courtin'  me  Sunday  nights, 
'Spacially  Jim. 

*  By  permission  of  The  Century  Co. 


VERSE  283 

The  likeliest  one  of  'em  all  was  he,  i 

Chipper  an'  han'som'  an'  trim,  \ 

But  I  tossed  up  my  head  an'  made  fun  o'  the  crowd,  j 

'Spacially  Jim.  j 

I  said  I  had  n't  no  'pinion  o'  men, 

An'  I  would  n't  take  stock  in  him ! 
But  they  kep'  up  a-comin'  in  spite  o'  my  talk,  j 

'Spacially  Jim.  j 

I  got  so  tired  o'  havin'  'em  roun', 

'Spacially  Jim, 
I  made  up  my  mind  I  'd  settle  down 

An'  take  up  with  him.  I 

So  we  was  married  one  Sunday  in  church, 

'T  was  crowded  full  to  the  brim ; 
'T  was  the  only  way  to  get  rid  of  'em  all, 

'Spacially  Jim.  j 

Bessie  Morgan.  i 


A    SIMILAR    CASE 

JACK,  I  hear  you  've  gone  and  done  it, 
Yes,  I  know ;  most  fellows  will ; 
Went  and  tried  it  once  myself,  sir. 
Though  you  see  I  'm  single  still. 
And  you  met  her  —  did  you  tell  me  — 
Down  at  Newport,  last  July, 
And  resolved  to  ask  the  question 
At  a  soiree?     So  did  I. 

I  suppose  you  left  the  ball-room. 

With  its  music  and  its  light; 

For  they  say  love's  flame  is  brightest 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

Well,  you  walked  along  together. 

Overhead,  the  starlit  sky; 

And  I  '11  bet  —  old  man,  confess  it  — 

You  were  frightened.    So  was  I. 

So  you  strolled  along  the  terrace. 
Saw  the  summer  moonlight  pour 
All  its  radiance  on  the  waters, 
As  they  rippled  on  the  shore, 


284  SELECTED   READINGS 

Till  at  length  you  gathered  courage. 
When  you  saw  that  none  was  nigh  — i- 
Did  you  draw  her  close  and  tell  her 
That  you  loved  her?    So  did  I. 

Well,  I  need  n't  ask  you  further. 
And  I  'm  sure  I  wish  you  joy. 
Think  I  '11  wander  down  and  see  you 
When  you  're  married  —  eh,  my  boy  ? 
When  the  honeymoon  is  over 
And  you  're  settled  down,  we  '11  try  — 
What?  the  deuce  you  say!    Eejected  — 
You  rejected?     So  was  I. 

Anonymous. 


THE    USUAL    WAY 

THEEE  was  once  a  little  man,  and  his  rod  and  line  he 
took, 
For  he  said,  "  I  '11  go  a-fishing  in  the  neighboring  brook." 
And  it  chanced  a  little  maiden  was  walking  out  that  day, 
And  they  met  —  in  the  usual  way. 

Then  he  sat  him  down  beside  her,  and  an  hour  or  two  went  by. 
But  still  upon  the  grassy  brink  his  rod  and  line  did  lie ; 
"  I  thought,"  she  shyly  whispered,  "  you  'd  be  fishing  all  the 
day ! " 
And  he  was  —  in  the  usual  way. 

So  he  gravely  took  his  rod  in  hand  and  threw  the  line  about, 
But  the  fish  perceived  distinctly  he  was  not  looking  out; 
And  he  said,  "  Sweetheart,  I  love  you,"  but  she  said  she 
could  not  stay,  • 
But  she  did  —  in  the  usual  way. 

Then  the  stars  came  out  above  them,  and  she  gave  a  little 

sigh 
As  they  watched  the  silver  ripples  like  the  moments  running 

by; 
"We  must  say  good-bye,"  she  whispered  by  the  alders  old 
and  gray. 
And  they  did  —  in  the  usual  way. 


VERSE  285 

And  day  by  day  beside  the  stream,  they  wandered  to  and  fro, 
And  day  by  day  the  fishes  swam  securely  down  below, 
Till  this  little  story  ended,  as  such  little  stories  may. 
Very  much  —  in  the  usual  way. 

And  now  that  they  are  married,  do  they  always  bill  and 

coo? 
Do  they  never  fret  and  quarrel,  like  other  couples  do? 
Does  he  cherish  her  and  love  her  ?  does  she  honor  and  obey  ? 
Well,  they  do  —  in  the  usual  way. 

Anonymous. 

THE    FAITHFUL    LO\^RS 

I'D  been  away  from  her  three  years,  —  about  that. 
And  I  returned  to  find  my  Mary  true ; 
And  thought  I  'd  question  her,  I  did  not  doubt  that 
It  was  imnecessary  so  to  do. 

'T  was  by  the  chimney-corner  we  were  sitting : 
"  ^Iar}%"  said  I,  "  have  you  been  always  true  ?  " 

"  Frankly,"  says  she,  just  pausing  in  her  knitting, 
"  I  don't  think  I  've  unfaithful  been  to  you : 

But  for  the  three  years  past  I  '11  tell  you  what 

I  've  done ;  then  say  if  I  've  been  true  or  not. 

"  When  first  you  left  my  grief  was  uncontrollable ; 

Alone  I  mourned  my  miserable  lot; 
And  all  who  saw  me  thought  me  inconsolable, 

Till  Captain  Clifford  came  from  Aldershot. 
To  flirt  with  him  amused  me  while  't  was  new: 
I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness  —  do  you? 

"  The  next  —  oh !  let  me  see  —  was  Frankie  Pliipps ; 

I  met  him  at  my  uncle's,  Christmas-tide, 
And  'neath  the  mistletoe,  where  lips  met  lips. 

He  gave  me  his  first  kiss  —  "     And  here  she  sighed. 
"  We  stayed  six  weeks  at  uncle's  —  how  time  flew ! 
I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness  —  do  you? 

"  Lord  Cecil  Fossmore  —  only  twenty-one  — 

Lent  me  his  horse.    0,  how  we  rode  and  raced  ! 

We  scoured  the  do\vns  —  we  rode  to  hounds  —  sucli  fun ! 
And  often  was  his  arm  about  my  waist,  — 

That  was  to  lift  me  np  and  down.     But  who 

Would  call  just  that  unfaithfulness?    Would  you? 


286  SELECTED    READINGS 

"  Do  you  know  Reggy  Vere  ?    Ah,  how  he  sings ! 

We  met,  —  't  was  at  a  picnic.     0,  such  weather ! 
He  gave  me,  look,  the  first  of  these  two  rings 

When  we  were  lost  in  Cliefden  woods  together. 
Ah,  what  a  happy  time  we  spent,  —  we  two ! 
I  don't  count  that  unfaithfulness  to  you. 

"  I  've  yet  another  ring  from  him  ;   d'  ye  see 

The  plain  gold  circlet  that  is  shining  here  ?  " 

I  took  her  hand :    "  0  Marv  !  can  it  be 

That  you  —  "    Quoth  she,  "  That  I  am  Mrs.  Vere  ? 

I  don't  call  that  unfaithfulness  —  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  for  I  am  married  too." 

Anonymous. 


PLATONIC 

I  HAD  sworn  to  be  a  bachelor,  she  had  sworn  to  be  a 
maid, 
For  we  quite  agreed  in  doubting  whether  matrimony  paid; 
Besides,  we  had  our  higher  loves,  —  fair  science  ruled  my 

heart ; 
And  she  said  her  young  affections  were  all  wound  up  in  art. 

So  we  laughed  at  those  wise  men  who  say  that  friendship 

cannot  live 
'Twixt  man  and  woman,  unless  each  has  something  more 

to  give: 
We  would  be  friends,  and  friends  as  true  as  e'er  were  man 

and  man  — 
I  'd  be  a  second  David,  and  she  Miss  Jonathan. 

We  scorned  all  sentimental  trash,  —  vows,  kisses,  tears,  and 

sighs ; 
High  friendship,   such   as   ours,   might   well   such   childish 

art  despise; 
We  liked  each  other,  that  was  all,  quite  all  there  was  to  say, 
So  we  Just  shook  hands  upon  it  in  a  business  sort  of  way. 

We  shared  our  secrets  and  our  Joys,  together  hoped  and 

feared. 
With  common  purpose  sought  the  goal  that  young  Ambition 

reared ; 


VERSE  287 

We  dreamed  together  of  the  days,  the  dream-bright  days 

to  come; 
We   were   strictly   confidential,   and  we   called   each   other 

"  chum." 

And  many  a  day  we  wandered  together  o'er  the  hills, 
I  seeking  bugs  and  butterflies,  and  she  the  ruined  mills 
And  rustic  bridges,  and  the  like,  that  picture-makers  prize 
To  run  in  with  their  waterfalls,  and  groves,  and  summer 
skies. 

And  many  a  quiet  evening,  in  hours  of  silent  ease 
We  floated  down  the  river,  or  strolled  beneath  the  trees, 
And  talked,  in  long  gradation,  from  the  poets  to  the  weather, 
W^hile  the  western  skies  and  my  cigar  burned  slowly  out 
together. 

Yet  through  it  all  no  whispered  word,  no  tell-tale  glance 

or  sigh 
Told  aught  of  warmer  sentiment  than  friendly  sympathy. 
We  talked  of  love  as  coolly  as  we  talked  of  nebulae 
And  thought  no  more  of  being  one  than  we  did  of  being  three. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  chum  !  "   I  took  her  hand,  for  the  time  had 

come  to  go. 
My  going  meant  our  parting,  when  to  meet,  we  did  not 

know; 
I  had  lingered  long,  and  said  farewell  with  a  very  heavy 

heart ; 
For   although  we  were  but  friends,  't  is   hard   for   honest 

friends  to  part. 

"  Good-bye,  old  fellow !   don't  forget  your  friends  beyond 

the  sea, 
And  some  day  when  you  've  lots  of  time,  drop  a  line  or  two 

to  me." 
The  words  came  lightly,  gayly,  but  a  great  sol),  just  behind. 
Welled  upward  with  a  story  of  quite  a  different  kind. 

And  then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  great  liquid  eyes  of 

blue. 
Filled  to  the  brim,  and  running  o'er,  like  violet  cups  of  dew; 


i, 

288                       SELECTED    READINGS  \ 

One  long,  long  glance,  and  then  I  did  "what  I  never  did        \ 

before  —  \ 

Perhaps  the  tears  meant  friendship,  but  I'm  sure  the  kiss 

meant  mora  i 

William  B.  Terrett.  i 

I 

LIFE 

HOW  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive! 

To  wake  each  mom  as  if  the  Maker's  grace  \ 

Did  us  afresh  from  nothingness  desire,  j 

That  we  might  sing,  How  happy  is  our  case !  j 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive !  i 

To  read  in  God's  great  book  until  we  feel  \ 

Love  for  the  love  that  gave  it;  then  to  kneel  I 

Close  unto  Him  whose  truth  our  souls  will  shrive  j 

Wliile  every  moment's  joy  doth  more  reveal  j 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive !  \ 

Eather  to  go  without  what  might  increase  ! 
Our  worldly  standing,  than  our  souls  deprive 

Of  frequent  speech  with  God ;  or  than  to  cease  ', 

To  feel,  through  having  wasted  health  or  peace,  ' 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive.  ; 

Not  to  forget,  when  pain  and  grief  draw  nigh,  •         \ 

Into  the  ocean  of  time  past  to  dive  * 

For  memories  of  God's  mercies,  or  to  try  i 

To  bear  all  sweetly,  hoping  yet,  to  cry  j 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive !  I 

Thus  ever  toward  man's  height  of  nobleness 
Strive  still  some  new  profession  to  contrive. 

Till,  just  as  any  other  friend's,  we  press  ■ 
Death's  hand;  and  having  died,  feel  none  the  less 

How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  alive.  i 

Thomas  Shelley  Sutton. 


SHE    LIKED    HLVI    RALE    WEEL 

THE  Spring  had  brought  out  the  green  leaf  on  the  trees. 
An'  the  flowers  were  unfolding  their  sweets  tae  the  bees, 
Wlien  Jock  says  tae  Jenny,  "Come,  Jenny,  agree. 
An'  say  the  bit  word  that  ye  '11  marry  me." 


VERSE  289 

She  held  doon  her  held  like  a  lily  sae  meek, 
An'  the  blush  o'  the  rose  fled  awa'  frae  her  cheek. 
But  she  said,  "  Gang  awa'  man ! 

Your  held 's  in  a  creel." 
She  didna  let  on  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel  — 

Oh !  she  liked  him  rale  weel  — 

Aye,  she  liked  him  rale  weel ! 
But  she  didna  let  on  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel. 

Then  Jock  says,  "  Oh,  Jenny,  for  a  twalmonth  an'  mair, 
Ye  ha'e  kept  me  just  hangin'  'twixt  hope  an'  despair. 
But,  oh !  Jenny,  last  night  something  whispered  tae  me 
That  I  'd  better  lie  doon  at  the  dyke-side  an'  dee." 
Tae  keep  Jock  in  life,  she  gave  in  tae  be  tied; 
An'  soon  they  were  booked,  an   three  times  they  were  cried. 
Love  danced  in  Jock's  heart,  an'  hope  joined  the  reel  — • 
He  was  sure  that  his  Jenny  did  like  him  rale  weel  — 

Oh !  she  liked  him  rale  weel ! 

Aye,  she  liked  him  rale  weel ! 
But  she  never  let  on  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel. 

When  the  wedding  day  cam',  tae  the  manse  they  did  stap. 

An'  there  they  got  welcome  frae  Mr.  Dunlap, 

Wha  chained  them  to  love's  matrimonial  stake, 

Svme  they  took  a  dram  an'  a  mouthfu'  o'  cake. 

Then  the  minister  said,  "  Jock,  be  kind  tae  your  Jenny, 

Nae  langer  she 's  tied  to  the  string  o'  her  minnie ; 

Noo,  Jenny,  will  ye  aye  be  couthie  an'  leal?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  oh,  yes,  for  I  like  him  rale  weel !  " 

Aye,  she  liked  him  rale  weel ! 

Oh !  she  liked  him  rale  weel ! 
At  last  she  owned  up  that  she  liked  him  rale  weel ! 

Andrew  Wauless. 


THE    HrNDOO'S    PARADISE  i 

A  HINDOO  died,  —  a  happy  thing  to  do  j 

WTien  twenty  years  united  to  a  shrew.  i 

Released,  he  joyously  for  entrance  cries  | 

Before  the  gates  of  Brahmn's  paradise.  i 

"Hast  been  through  purgatory,"  Brnliina  said.  | 

"  I  have  been  married,"  —  and  he  hung  his  head. 

19  " 


290  SELECTED    READINGS 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  and  welcome,  too,  my  son ! 
Marriage  and  purgatory  are  as  one." 
In  bliss  extreme  he  entered  heaven's  door. 
And  knew  the  peace  he  ne'er  had  known  before. 

Scarce  had  he  entered  in  the  garden  fair. 

Before  another  Hindoo  asked  admission  there. 

The  selfsame  question  Brahma  asked  again : 

"  Hast  been  through  purgatory  ?  "    "  No  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  Thou  canst  not  enter,"  did  the  god  reply. 

"  He  who  went  in  was  there  no  more  than  I." 

"  All  that  is  true,  but  he  hath  married  been, 

And  so  on  earth  has  suffered  for  all  sin." 

*'  Married  ?    'T  is  well ;  for  I  've  been  married  twice !  " 

"  Begone !    We  '11  have  no  fools  in  paradise !  " 

Anonymous. 


A    DEAR    LITTLE    GOOSE 

WHILE  I  am  in  the  ones,  I  can  frolic  all  the  day; 
I  can  laugh,  I  can  jump,  I  can  run  about  and  play. 
But  when  I  'm  in  my  tens,  I  must  get  up  with  the  lark. 

And  sew  and  read,  and  practise,  from  early  morn  till 
dark. 

But  when  I  'm  in  my  twenties,  I  '11  be  like  sister  Joe. 

I  '11  wear  the  sweetest  dresses,  and  msijhe  have  a  beau ; 
I  '11  go  to  balls  and  parties,  and  wear  my  hair  up  high, 

And  not  a  girl  in  aU  the  town  shall  be  as  gay  as  I. 

When  I  am  in  my  thirties,  I  '11  be  just  like  mamma ; 

And  maybe  t  '11  be  married  to  a  splendid  big  papa. 
I  '11  cook,  and  bake,  and  mend,  and  mind,  and  grow  a  little 
fat. 

But  mother  is  so  sweet  and  nice,  I  '11  not  object  to  that. 

Oh,  what  comes  after  thirty?    The  forties!     Mercy!     My! 

Wlien  I  grow  as  old  as  forty,  I  think  I  '11  have  to  die. 
But  like  enough  the  world  won't  last  until  we  see  that  day. 

It's  so  very,  very,  very,  very,  very  far  away. 

Anonymous. 


VERSE  291 


]\L\TTIE'S    WANTS    AND   WISHES 

I  WANTS   a   piece   of   talito 
To  make  my  doll  a  dress; 
I  does  n't  want  a  big  piece  — 
A  yard  '11  do  I  guess. 

I  wish  you  'd  f red  my  needle, 
And  find  my  fimble,  too  — 

I  has  such  heaps  o'  sewin' 

I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

My  Hepsy  tored  her  apron 

A  tum'lin'  down  the  stair; 

And  Caesar's  lost  his  pantaloons, 
And  needs  anozzer  pair. 

I  wants  my  Maud  a  bonnet, 

She  has  n't  none  at  all ; 
And  Fred  must  have  a  jacket, 

His  uzzer  one's  too  small. 

I  wants  to  go  to  grandma's. 

You  promised  me  I  might; 

You  know  she  '11  like  to  see  me  — 
I  wants  to  go   to-night. 

She  lets  me  wash  the  dishes, 

And  see  in  grandpa's  watch  — 

Wish  I  'd  free,  four  pennies, 
To  buy  some  butter-scotch. 

I  wants  some  newer  mittens, 
I  wish  you  'd  knit  me  some, 

'Cause  'most  my  fingers  freezes, 
They  leak  so  in  the  fum. 

I  wored  it  out  last  summer 

A-pullin'  George's  sled; 
I  wish  you  would  n't  laugh  so  — 

It  hurts  me  in  my  head. 

I  wish  I  had  a  cooky  — 

I  'm  hungry  's  I  can  be; 
If  you  has  n't  pretty  large  ones. 

You  'd  better  bring  me  free. 

Grace  Gordon". 


V 

SELECTIONS 


V  — SELECTIONS 


THE    CATECHIST* 

Tm  was  a  man,  and  a  maid,  and  a  little  gray  cat  sitting 

A        on  a  wall. 
I  will  tell  you  just  what  the  three  were  at;  I  know,  though 

I  did  n't  see  all. 
The  man  was  scratching  a  puzzled  head;  the  girl,  with  a 

troubled  air. 
Was  playing  the  Catechist,  blushing  red;  the  cat  was  wash- 
ing his  hair. 
"  N"ow,  don't  you  know  it  is  wrong?"  said  the  maid.     "I 

don't  see  why,"  said  the  man. 
"  We  have  n't  been  acquainted  long."     "  I  am  getting  on 

fast  as  I  can." 
"  Now,  don't  be  stubborn,"  the  Catechist  said  —  and  the 

rest  was  the  part  that  I  missed; 
But  the  man  kissed  one  of  the  two  that  were  there.     Do 

3'ou  think  't  was  the  Catechist? 

Anonymous. 


C'LUMBUS 

A  Boy's  Composition 

C'LUMBUS  was  a  man  who  could  make  an  egg  stand 
on  end  without  breaking  it.  The  King  of  Spain  said 
to  C'lumbus,  "  Can  you  discover  America  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said 
he,  "  if  you  will  give  me  a  ship."  So  he  had  a  ship  and 
sailed  over  the  sea  in  the  direction  in  which  he  thought 
America  ought  to  be  found.  The  sailors  had  a  fight  and 
said  they  believed  there  was  no  such  place;  but  after  awhile 
the  pilot  came  and  said,  "  C'lumbus,  I  see  land."  "  Then 
that  must  be  America,"  said  C'lumbus.  When  they  drew 
near  the  land  they  saw  it  was  full  of  black  men  and  C'lumbus 
said,  "  You  musib  be  niggers."  Then  the  chief  said,  "  You 
must  be  C'lumbus."  "  You  are  right,"  said  he ;  "I  am." 
Then  the  chief  turned  to  his  men  and  said:  "There  is  no 
help  for  it.    We  are  discovered  at  last." 

Anonymous. 

•  By  permission  of  The  Smart  Set. 


296  SELECTED    READINGS 


MADAME    EEF 

MONSIEUE  ADAM  was  all  alone  in  ze  garden.    He  have 
plenty  for  eat  and  plenty  for  drink  and  ees  very  eon- 
fortable,  but  he  'ave  not  much  clothes. 

Von  evening  he  lie  down  on  ze  ground  for  take  a  nap. 
In  ze  morning  he  wake  wiz  wan  pain  in  hees  side. 

He  say :  "  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  vat  ees  ze  matter,  eh  ?  Ah ! 
diable,  ees  wan  rib  gone.  I  shall  make  von  promenade  in 
ze  open  air.     It  will  make  me  feel  bettair." 

He  promenade.  Mme.  Eef  she  approach.  It  is  ze  first 
lady  zat  M.  Adam  haf  ever  met;  it  is  Mme.  Eefs  entree  to 
society.  Zhey  approach  each  other  and  both  are  very  much 
attract.  M.  Adam  he  say,  "  I  'ave  ze  plaisair  for  promenade 
wiz  you  ?  " 

Mme  Eef  respond,  "  I  shall  be  mos'  happy  " ;  and  zhey 
walk  together.  Zhey  promenade  under  von  tree  wiz  ze  pretty 
appel  on  it;  ze  pretty  appel  wiz  ze  red  streak.  Monsieur  le 
serpent  he  sit  in  ze  arbre.  He  'ave  pretty  mask  all  over 
hees   face  —  look   like   elegant  gentilhomme. 

Mme.  Eef  she  see  Monsieur  le  serpent  wiz  ze  pretty  mask 
and  ze  appel  wiz  ze  red  streak  and  she  is  very  much  at- 
tract. ]\Ionsieur  le  serpent  he  say,  "  Mme.  Eef,  shall  I 
'ave  ze  plaisair  for  peek  you  von  appel?"  Mme.  Eef,  she 
reach  out  her  hand  for  take  ze  appel.  Monsieur  Adam 
he  say,  "  Hola,  hola,  voila.  Vat  you  do,  eh?  You  do  not 
know  it  ees  proliibit?  You  must  not  touch  ze  appel.  If 
you  eat  ze  appel  you  shall  be  like  von  God  —  you  shall  know 
ze  good  from  ze  evil." 

Monsieur  le  serpent  take  von  pinch  of  snuff.  He  say, 
"  Monsieur  Adam,  it  ees  prohibit  for  you.  If  you  eat  ze 
appel  you  shall  become  like  von  Dieu  —  you  shall  know  ze 
good  from  ze  evil.  Mut  Mme.  Eef,  she  cannot  become  more 
like  von  goddess  zan  she  ees  now." 

And  zat  finish  Mme.  Eef. 

Anonymous. 


SELECTIONS  297 

AN   ITALIAN'S   VIEWS   ON   THE   LABOR 

QUESTION 

OXE  man  looka  at  da  labor  quest'  one  way,  'noder  man 
looka  'noder  way.    I  looka  deesa  way : 

Longa  time  ago  I  gitta  born  in  Italia.  Pret'  queck  I 
gitta  big  'nough  to  know  mya  dad.  I  find  him  one  worka 
man.  Him  worka  hard  in  da  hotta  snn  —  sweat  lika  da 
wetta  rag  to  maka  da  'nough  mon'  to  gitta  da  grub.  Mya 
moth'  worka  too  —  work  lika  da  dog.  Dey  make  alia  da 
kids  work  —  mea  too.  Dat  maka  me  tired.  I  see  da  king, 
da  queen,  and  da  richa  peop'  driva  by  in  da  swella  style. 
It  maka  me  sick.  I  say,  "  Da  world  alia  wrong.  Da  rich 
have  too  niucha  mon',  too  mucha  softa  snap.  Da  poor  have 
too  mucha  work,  too  mucha  dirt,  too  mucha  tougha  luck." 

Dat  maka  me  one  dago  anarchista.  I  hear  'bout  Amer- 
ica, da  freea  countra,  where  da  worka  man  eata  da  minga  pie 
an'  da  roasa  beef. 

I  taka  da  skip  —  taka  da  ship  —  sail  ova  da  wat'  — 
reacha  Xewa  York. 

Va!  It  reminds  me  of  Naples  —  beautifula  bay,  blue 
slr\%  da  plenty  lazaroni  and  mucha  dirta  streets. 

I  looka  'r-round  for  da  easy  job.  It  noa  go.  Da  easy 
jobs  alia  gone. 

It  mora  work  to  gitta  da  work  dan  da  work  itself.  I  gitta 
down  on  da  richa  peop'  more  anda  more  alia  da  time.  Geea 
Whiz  !     Dat  freea  countra  maka  me  sick  ! 

"Well,  aft'  while  I  strika  da  job  —  pounda  da  stone  on 
da  railroad.  It  neer  keela,  but  I  eata  da  ver'  lif  grub,  weara 
da  olda  clothes,  and  socka  da  mon'  in  mya  sock  eacha  day. 
I  learna  da  one  ting  —  da  mon'  maka  da  mare  go. 

I  catcha  da  spirit  ofa  da  town:  I  maka  what  you  calla 
da  progress.  I  find  da  man  what  maka  da  mon'  nev'  do 
da  harda  work.  I  quit.  I  buya  da  buncha  banan',  putta 
da  banan'  ina  da  bask  ona  my  arm,  sella  him  ona  da  street. 
Hulla  Gee !    I  maka  da  twenty-fi'  cent  a  day  clear. 

A^'er'  soon  I  have  da  gr-rata  lotta  mon'.  I  buya  one  handa 
org*;  maka  da  mus',  playa  Ta-ra-ra  Boom  all  ova  da  coun- 
try; maka  mor'  mon';  den  I  buy  Jocka  da  monk'.  Da 
monk'  is  lika  da  businessa  man  —  ver'  smart.  I  maka  him 
my  cashier.  Him  passa  da  contribution  box  lika  da  deacon 
in  da  church.    Him  maka  da  face,  him  dance. 


298  SELECTED   READINGS 

Da  biz  grow.  We  sella  da  hand  org*  —  buy  one  streeta 
piano,  I  hira  one  'sistant.  Da  'sistant  puslia  da  piano,  I 
grinda  da  crank,  da  monk^  taka  da  mon'. 

We  gitta  da  ver'  wella  off.  I  gitta  mar-r-red.  Buya  me 
one  home,  sweeta  home. 

I  investa  ma  mon'  —  buya  da  fruita  stands  on  da  side- 
walk—  hire  da  cheapa  dago  chumps  to  runna  da  stands. 

Da  labor  quest'  ver'  simp'  —  ver'  plain.  When  I  poor 
I  say :  —  "  Shoota  da  monopola !  Keela  da  richa  man !  " 
Alia  da  same  when  you  in  Eoma  do  lika  da  Roma  peop'. 

Now  I  one  r-richa  man.  I  weara  da  fine  clothes  —  picka 
my  teeth  with  da  golda  pick  —  weara  da  diamond  stud  — 
driva  ma  team  —  and  snappa  ma  fingers. 

It  maka  alia  da  dif  in  da  world  which  side  da  fence 
you  stana  on. 

Joe  Kerr. 


H 


THE    MEETING   OF    THE    CLABBERHUSES  * 

E  was  the  Chairman  of  the  Guild 
Of  Early  Pleioeene  Patriarchs; 
He  was  chief  Mentor  of  the  Lodge 

Of  the  Oracular  Oligarchs. 
He  was  the  Lord  High  Autocrat 

And  Vizier  of  the  Sons  of  Light, 
And  Sultan  and  Grand  Mandarin 

Of  the  Millennial  Men  of  Might. 

He  was  Grand  Totem  and  High  Priest 

Of  the  Independent  Potentates; 
Grand  Mogul  of  the  Galaxy 

Of  the  Illustrious  Stay-out-lates ; 
The  President  of  the  Dandydudes; 

The  Treasurer  of  the  Sons  of  Glee; 
The  Leader  of  the  Clubtown  Band 

And  Architects  of  Melody. 

She  was  Grand  Worthy  Prophetess 

Of  the  Illustrious  Maids  of  Mark; 
Of  Vestals  of  the  Third  Degree 

She  was  Most  Potent  Matriarch; 
She  was  High  Priestess  of  the  Shrine 

Of  Clubtown's  Culture  Coterie, 
And  First  Vice-President  of  the  League 

Of  the  Illustrious  G.A.B. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  pxtblishers,  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co. 


SELECTIONS  299 

She  was  the  First  Dame  of  the  Club 

For  teaching  Patagonians  Greek; 
She  was  Chief  Clerk  and  Auditor 

Of  Clubtown's  Anti-Bachelor  Clique; 
She  was  High  Treasurer  of  the  Fund 

For  Borrioboolaghalians, 
And  the  Fund  for  sending  Browning's  Poems 

To  Native-born  Australians. 

Once  to  a  crowded  social  fete 

Both  these  much  titled  people  came. 

And  each  perceived,  when  introduced. 
They  had  the  selfsame  name. 

Their  hostess  said  when  first  they  met : 
"  Permit  me  now  to  introduce 

My  good  friend  Mr.  Clabberhuse 
To  Mrs.  Clabberhuse." 

"  'T  is  very  strange,"  said  she  to  him, 

"  Such  an  unusual  name, 
A  name  so  very  seldom  heard, 

That  we  should  bear  the  same." 
"  Indeed,  't  is  wonderful,"  said  he, 

"  And  I  'm  surprised  the  more, 
Because  I  never  heard  the  name 

Outside  my  home  before. 

"  But  now  I  come  to  look  at  you," 

Said  he,  "upon  my  life, 
If  I  am  not  indeed  deceived. 

You  are  —  you  are  —  my  wife." 
She  gazed  into  his  searching  face 

And  seemed  to  look  him  through: 
"  Indeed,"  said  she,  "  it  seems  to  me 

You  are  my  husband,  too." 

"  I  've  been  so  busy  with  my  clubs, 
And  in   my  various  spheres, 
I  have  not  seen  you  now,"  she  said, 

"  For  over  fourteen  years." 
"  That 's  just  the  way  it 's  been  with  me. 

These  clubs  demand  a  sight  — " 
And  then  they  both  politely  bowed, 
And  sweetly   said,   "  Good-night." 

Sam  Walter  Foss. 


300  SELECTED   READINGS 


A   CLUB   MEETING   OF    SOLOMON'S   WIVES* 

A  WOMAN'S  club  meeting  of  Solomon's  wives 
Was  quite  an  important  affair; 
It  brought  a  fresh  interest  into  their  lives 

And  drove  Mr.  S.  to  despair. 
They  had  deep  discussion  on  things  of  the  hour, 

And  argued  on  topical  lines 
Till  they  made  such  a  racket  you  'd  hear  them  all  clack  it 
As  far  as  King  Solomon's  mines. 

The  first  Mrs.  S.,  quite  a  dowager  stout, 

Presided  at  three  each  club  day, 
When  she  always  began,  "  Let  us  try  to  find  out 

What  Kipling  intended  in  '  They  '  — 
And  let's  have  a  paper  on  Dooley  and  James 

And  The  Ethical  Conscience  of  Poe, 
On  Byron  and  Shelley  and  Marie  Corelli  — 

Such  topics  are  helpful,  you  know." 

Then  a  blond  Mrs.  S.  shyly  rose  to  her  feet. 

And  said,  showing  symptoms  of  scare 
As  she  fitfully  read  from  a  typewritten  sheet, 

"  I  have  n't  had  time  to  prepare  — 
The  man  Henry  James  —  I  mean  Poe  —  let  me  see  — 

I  think  he  was  born  in  the  year  — 
I  'm  horridly  nei*vous !     Sweet  Heaven,  preserve  us, 

I  've  got  the  wrong  paper  —  oh,  dear !  " 


Then  a  dark  Mrs.  S.  said,  with  withering  scorn, 

"  How  can  such  a  talk  be  presented 
"^-Tien  Byron  and  Shelley  have  never  been  born 

And  Kipling  is  not  yet  invented? 
We  have  Hebrew  poets  as  great  as  that  Poe  — 

Mrs.  President  I  have  the  floor  — 
I  think  it  much  harder  —  "    Here  the  chair  rapped  for  order, 

And  the  meeting  merged  into  a  roar. 

Then,  dropping  the  poets,  there  rose  a  debate 

'Twixt  feminine  disputants  able, 
'Midst  witty  retorts  and  finance  reports. 

Till  the  question  was  laid  on  the  table. 

*  By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company, 


SELECTIONS  301 

But  when  a  refreshment  committee  was  formed. 

The  talk  grew  as  mild  as  could  be, 
Sweet  quiet  returned,  and  the  meeting  adjourned 

To  Solomon's  temple  for  tea. 

Wallace  Irwin. 


WHEN    THE    MINISTER    COMES    TO    TEA* 

OH !  they  've  swept  the  parlor  carpet,  and  they  've  dusted 
every  chair. 
And  they  Ve  got  the  tidies  hanging  just  exactly  on  the 

square. 
And  the  whatnot's  fixed  up  lovely,  and  the  mats  have  all 

been  beat, 
And  the  pantry  's  brimming  over  with  bully  things  to  eat. 

Sis  has  got  her  Sunday  dress  on,  and  she  's  frizzing  up  her 

bangs, 
Ma 's  got  on  her  best  alpaca,  and  she  's  asking  how  it  hangs. 
Pa 's  shaved  as  slick  as  can  be  and  I  'm  all  rigged  up  in  G ; 
And  it 's  all  because  we  're  goin'  to  have  the  minister  to  tea. 

Oh  !   the  table  's  fixed  up  gaudy  with  the  gilt-edged  china  set. 

And  we  '11  use  the  silver  teapot  and  the  company  spoons, 
you  bet. 

And  we  're  goin'  to  have  some  fruitcake,  and  some  thimble- 
berry  jam, 

Eiz'  biscuits,  and  some  doughnuts,  and  some  chicken,  and 
some  ham. 

Ma  '11  pologize  like  fury  and  say  everything  is  bad, 

And  such  awful  luck  with  cookin'  she  's  sure  she  never  had. 

But  of  course  she's  only  bluffin',  for  it's  as  prime  as  it 

can  be, 
And  she 's  only  talkin'  that  way  'cause  the  minister 's  to  tea. 

Everybody '11  be  a-smilin'  and  as  good  as  ever  was, 

Pa  won't  growl  'bout  the  vituals  like  he  generally  does. 

An'  he  'II  ask  me  —  would  I  like  another  piece  of  pie  ?    But 

sho! 
That  of  course  is  only  manners  and  I  'm  supposed  to  answer 

no. 

•  From  "Cape  Cod  Ballads  and  Other  Veree,"  bu  Joseph  Crosbu  Lincoln,    Copy- 
ridhl,  1002,  bv  Albert  Brandt,  Trenton,  N.  J, 


302  SELECTED    READINGS 

Sis  '11  talk  about  the  church  work,  and  'bout  the  Sunday 

school. 
Ma  'II  say  how  she  liked  that  sermon  tliat  was  on  the  golden 

rule. 
And  if  I  upset  my  tumbler,  they  won't  say  a  word  to  me. 
Yes,  a  boy  can  eat  in  comfort  with  the  minister  to  tea. 

Say !  a  minister  you  'd  reckon  would  n't  say  what  was  n't 

true, 
But  that  isn't  so  with  ours,  and  I  just  can  prove  it,  too; 
For  when  Sis  plays  on  the  organ  so  's  it  makes  you  want  to 

die. 
Why  he  sets  and  says  its  lovely,  and  that  seems  to  me  a 

lie. 

But  I  like  him  all  the  samey,  and  I  only  wish  he  'd  stay 
At  our  house  for  good  and  always  and  eat  with  us  every  day. 
Only  think  of  havin'  goodies  every  evenin',  Giminee ! 
And  I  'd  never  get  a  scoldin'  with  the  minister  to  tea. 

Joseph  Crosby  Lincoln. 

AUNT    'MANDY* 

OUR  Aunt  'Mandy  thinks  that  boys 
Never  ought  ter  make  a  noise, 
Or  go  swimmin',  or  play  ball. 
Or  have  any  fun  at  all; 
Thinks  a  boy  had  ought  ter  be 
Dressed  up  all  the  time,  and  she 
Hollers  jest  as  if  she 's  hurt 
At  the  littlest  mite  er  dirt 
On  a  feller's  hands  or  face. 
Or  his  clothes,  or  any  place. 

Then  at  dinnertime  she  's  there, 
Sayin',  "  Must  n't  kick  the  chair !  " 
Or,  "  Why  don't  yer  sit  up  straight  ?  '* 
"  'T  ain't  perlite  to  drum  yer  plate." 
An'  yer  got  ter  eat  as  slow, 
'Cause  she 's  dingin'  at  yer  so. 
Then,  when  Chris'mas  comes,  she  brings 
Nothin'  only  useful  things: 
Han'kershi'fs  an'  gloves  an'  ties, 
Sunday  stuff  yer  jest  despise. 

*  From  "Cape  Cod  Ballads  and  Other  Verse,"  by  Joseph  Crosby  Lincoln.    Copy- 
rioht,  1902,  by  Albert  Brandt,  Trenton,  N.  J. 


SELECTIONS  303 

She 's  a  ole  maid,  all  alone, 
'Thout  no  children  of  her  own, 
An'  I  s'pose  that  makes  her  fuss 
'Eound  our  house  a-bossin'  us. 
If  she'd  had  a  boy,  I  bet, 
'Tween  her  bossin'  and  her  fret 
She  'd  a-killed  him,  jest  about ; 
So  God  made  her  do  without, 
For  he  knew  no  boy  could  stay 
With  Aunt  'Mandy  every  day, 

Joseph  Crosby  Lincoln. 


A    STUDY    IN    NERVES* 

A  SMALL  door  at  the  right  of  the  pulpit  opened,  and 
he  walked  to  his  place  before  the  altar.  It  had 
already  been  indicated  by  an  inconspicuous  chalk  mark  on 
the  floor.  His  best  man  followed  a  little  behind  him  at 
an  interval  which  had  required  frequent  rehearsing  the 
evening  before.  He  did  not  catch  his  chalk  mark  for  an 
instant,  and  overstepped  it,  but  he  retreated  cautiously,  still 
facing  the  enemy,  and  carefully  covered  it  with  his  foot. 

People  had  been  pouring  into  the  church  for  the  last 
half-hour.  At  last  all  those  who  had  been  invited  had  been 
given  the  front  seats.  There  was  a  slight  flutter  in  the 
audience  when  the  bride's  mother  and  her  two  married 
sisters  were  escorted  to  their  seats  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  aisle  from  that  set  apart  for  the  bridegroom's  family, 
in  tlie  suggestively  antagonistic  manner  which  is  customary 
when  two  houses  are  about  to  be  united. 

From  his  chalk  mark  by  the  altar  he  gazed  rather  unin- 
telligently  at  the  blur  of  faces  turned  toward  him.  Why 
should  tliey  all  be  staring  at  him?  Was  his  cravat  slipping 
up  over  his  collar?  Only  a  hoarse  but  reassuring  "You're 
all  right,  old  man ! "  brought  his  wandering  hand  back  to 
his  side  again.  But  why  didn't  the  music  begin?  A\niy 
did  n't  they  open  those  doors?  Had  anything  gone  wrong? 
Had  any  one  arrived  at  the  last  moment  to  announce  some 
good  cause  why  they  two  should  not  be  joined  together  in 
holy  wedlock?  No,  thank  Heaven,  he  could  face  the  world 
on  that  score.    None  the  less,  he  felt  that  it  must  be  fearfully 

•  By  permUsion  of  Life  Publishing  Co, 


304  SELECTED    READINGS 

late.  Yet  he  had  been  told  that  everything  was  all  read}', 
and  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  take  his  place  on  his 
chalk  mark.  What  were  they  waiting  for?  If  he  could 
only  look  at  his  watch  and  see  what  time  it  really  was,  it 
would  relieve  his  mind.  He  remembered  that  he  had  never 
seen  it  done,  and  kept  his  hands  fast  at  the  seams  of  his 
trousers,  out  of  temptation. 

Suddenly  the  doors  were  pushed  back  and  the  bridal  party 
appeared  in  the  opening.  Behind  the  double  file  of  sombre- 
hued  ushers  his  eye  caught  a  bit  of  color  from  the  dress 
of  one  of  the  bridesmaids,  and  then  rested  for  a  moment 
upon  a  little  cloud  of  pure  swanlike  white.  Thank  Heaven, 
there  she  was.  And  as  she  was  there,  why  did  n't  the  music 
begin?  The  tallest  usher  changed  his  position,  and  the 
little  white  cloud  disappeared  behind  his  broad  black 
shoulder.  Confound  him,  why  could  n't  he  stand  still,  when 
that  was  the  first  glimpse  he  had  had  of  her  for  goodness 
knew  how  long! 

He  saw  the  black  back  of  the  organist  suddenly  fill  out 
as  with  the  responsibility  of  his  exalted  position,  and  the 
next  instant  the  familiar  Mendelssohn  Wedding  March  pealed 
through  the  church.  He  felt  that  his  troubles  were  over, 
for  anything  was  better  than  that  silent  staring. 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  make  out  what  had  all  at 
once  changed  the  appearance  of  things  so  much.  Then  he 
discovered  that  the  sea  of  faces  had  turned  into  an  equally 
bewildering  exhibition  of  black  hair.  What  was  the  matter 
with  his  mind,  anyway  ?    "WHiy  could  n't  he  stop  thinking  ? 

"  Tum-tum-ti-tum."  The  music  not  only  had  begun,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  it  had  always  been  playing.  Why 
did  they  not  start?  It  seemed  an  easy  matter  for  eight 
grown  men  to  walk  up  a  broad  aisle  together,  two  by  two, 
a  certain  distance  apart.  They  had  done  it  half  a  dozen 
times  the  night  before.  It  was  perfectly  simple.  They 
were  to  be  two  pews  apart.  Or  was  it  three  pews  ?  "  Ti- 
tum-tum-ti-tum." 

He  did  n't  know  which  it  was,  but  it  was  no  affair  of 
his,  anyw^ay.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  stay  on  his  chalk 
mark  until  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  to  that  other  chalk 
mark  over  there  to  receive  her.  There  it  was,  a  little  rubbed 
out,  to  be  sure,  but  seeming  to  him  like  the  guiding  star 
to  the  path  of  matrimony.  A  scarcely  breathed,  "  They  're 
off  I  "  at  his  elbow,  brought  him  back  to  earth  again.    They 


SELECTIONS  305 

were  coming  through  the  door.    It  was  two  pews  apart  after 
all. 

"  Tum-tnm-ti-tum-tum." 

The  two  ushers  in  the  lead  were  so  near  him  that  he 
could  see  the  pearls  on  the  pins  he  had  given  them.  There 
she  was,  Heaven  bless  her !  What  was  the  sense  of  all  this 
bother?  Why  couldn't  he  rush  down  the  aisle  and  get  her, 
all  bv  himself?  His  eye  fell  upon  the  relentless  chalk  mark 
before  him,  and  he  shifted  his  weight  uneasily  from  one 
foot  to  the  other. 

The  two  files  of  ushers  had  begun  to  deploy  on  either 
side  of  him,  each  man  trying  to  keep  one  eye  on  his  align- 
ment, and  with  the  other  to  steer  for  his  own  particular 
chalk  mark.  As  the  last  one  disappeared  from  view  behind 
him,  he  felt  that  he  never  wanted  to  see  one  of  them  again 
after  the  way  they  had  just  treated  him.  The  next  moment 
the  bridesmaids  were  tripping  by  him,  guided  to  their  posi- 
tions by  that  unerring  instinct  in  regard  to  all  that  pertains 
to  weddings,  which  is  every  woman's  birthright. 

Then  the  final  "  tum-tum-ti-tum  "  rang  out  triumphantly 
into  every  comer  of  the  church.  He  rushed  to  the  now 
benignly-inviting  chalk  mark,  and  in  an  instant  her  hand 
was  in  his  own. 

Anonymous. 


LOVE    IN    A    BALLOON 

SOME  time  ago  I  was  staying  with  Sir  George  Flasher, 
with  a  great  number  of  people  there  —  all  kinds  of 
amusements  going  on :  driving,  riding,  fishing,  shooting,  — 
everything  in  fact.  Sir  George's  daughter,  Fanny,  was  often 
my  companion  in  these  expeditions,  and  I  was  considerably 
stnick  with  her;  for  she  was  a  girl  to  whom  the  epithet 
"  stunning  "  applies  better  than  any  other  I  am  acquainted 
with.  She  could  ride  like  Nimrod,  she  could  drive  like  Jehu, 
she  could  dance  like  Terpsichore,  she  walked  like  Juno,  — 
and  she  looked  like  Venus.     I  've  even  seen  her  smoke ! 

Oh,  she  was  a  stunner!  you  should  have  heard  that  girl 
whistle,  and  laugh  —  you  should  have  heard  her  laugh ! 
She  was  truly  a  delightful  companion.  "We  rode  together, 
drove  together,  fished  togetlior,  walked  together,  danced  to- 
gether, sang  together  —  I  called  her  Fanny,  and  she  called 

20 


306  SELECTED   READINGS 

me  Tom.  All  this  could  have  but  one  termination,  you 
know.  I  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  determined  to  take  the 
first  opportunity  of  proposing.  So  one  day  when  we  were 
out  together  fishing  on  the  lake,  I  went  down  on  my  knees 
among  the  gudgeons,  seized  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  my 
waistcoat,  and  in  burning  accents  entreated  her  to  become 
my  wife. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool.  Now  drop  it,  do,  and  put  me  a  fresh 
worm  on." 

"  Oh,  Fanny !  Don't  talk  about  worms  when  marriage  is 
in  question.     Only  say  —  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  now,  if  you  don't  drop  it  I  '11 
pitch  you  out  of  the  boat." 

"  I  did  not  drop  it,  and  —  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
—  with  a  sudden  shove  she  sent  me  flying  into  the  water. 
Then,  seizing  the  sculls,  with  a  stroke  or  two  she  put 
several  yards  between  us,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter 
that  fortunately  prevented  her  from  going  any  further.  I 
swam  up  and  climbed  into  the  boat.  "  Jenkins,"  said  I  to 
myself,  "  revenge !  revenge  !  "  I  disguised  my  feelings.  I 
laughed  —  hideous  mockery  of  mirth  —  I  laughed,  pulled 
to  the  bank,  went  to  the  house,  and  changed  my  clothes. 
When  I  appeared  at  the  dinner  table,  I  perceived  that  every 
one  had  been  informed  of  my  ducking.  Universal  laughter 
greeted  me.  During  dinner  Fanny  repeatedly  whispered 
to  her  neighbor,  and  glanced  at  me.  Smothered  laughter 
invariably  followed.  "  Jenkins,"  said  I,  "  revenge !  revenge !  " 

The  opportunit}'  soon  offered.  There  was  to  be  a  balloon 
ascent  from  the  lawn,  and  Fanny  had  tormented  her  father 
into  letting  her  ascend  with  the  aeronaut.  I  instantly  took 
my  plans ;  bribed  the  aeronaut  to  plead  illness  at  the  moment 
the  machine  was  about  to  rise ;  learned  from  him  the  man- 
agement of  the  balloon,  —  though  I  understood  that  pretty 
well  before,  —  and  calmly  awaited  the  result.  The  day  came. 
The  weather  was  fine.  The  balloon  was  inflated.  Fanny 
was  in  the  car.  Everything  was  ready  —  when  the  aeronaut 
suddenly  fainted.  He  was  carried  into  the  house,  and  Sir 
George  accompanied  him.     Fanny  was  in  despair. 

"  Am  I  to  lose  my  air  expedition?  Some  one  understands 
the  management  of  this  thing,  surely  !  Nobody  ?  Tom,  you 
understand  it,  don't  you?" 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Come  along,  then.    Quick,  before  papa  comes  back ! " 


SELECTIONS  307 

The  company  in  general  endeavored  to  dissuade  her  from 
her  project;  but  of  course  in  vain.  After  a  decent  show  of 
hesitation,  I  climbed  into  the  car.  The  balloon  was  cast 
off,  and  rapidly  sailed  heavenward.  There  was  not  a  breath 
of  wind,  and  we  rose  straight  up.  We  went  above  the  house, 
and  she  laughed,  and  said,  "  How  jolly !  " 

We  were  higher  than  the  highest  trees,  and  she  smiled, 
and  said  it  was  xevy  kind  of  me  to  come  with  her.  We 
were  so  high  that  the  people  below  looked  mere  specks, 
and  she  hoped  that  I  thoroughly  understood  the  manage- 
ment of  the  balloon.     Now  was  my  time. 

"  I  understand  the  going  up  part,  to  come  down  is  not 
60  easy." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why,  when  you  want  to  go  up  faster,  you  throw  some 
sand  overboard,"  I  replied,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Tom." 

"  Foolish  ?  0  dear,  no ;  but  whether  I  go  along  the  ground 
or  up  in  the  air  I  like  to  go  the  pace ;  and  so  do  you,  Fanny, 
I  know.  Go  it,  you  cripples ! "  and  over  went  another  sand- 
bag. 

"  "Why,  you  're  mad,  surely !  " 

"  Only  with  love,  my  dear,  only  with  love  for  you.  Oh, 
Fanny,  I  adore  you !     Say  you  will  be  my  wife !  " 

"  I  gave  you  an  answer  the  other  day,  one  which  I  think 
you  should  have  remembered." 

"  I  remember  it  perfectly,  but  I  intend  to  have  a  dif- 
ferent reply  from  that.  You  see  those  five  sand-bags.  I 
shall  ask  you  five  times  to  become  my  wife.  Every  time 
3'ou  refuse  I  shall  throw  over  a  sand-bag.  So,  lady  fair,  re- 
consider your  decision,  and  consent  to  become  Mrs.  Jenkins." 

"  I  won't.  I  never  will.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  you 
are  acting  in  a  very  ungentlemanly  way  to  press  me  thus." 

"  You  acted  in  a  very  ladylike  way  the  other  day,  did 
you  not  —  when  you  knocked  me  out  of  the  boat?"  She 
laughed  again,  for  she  was  a  plucky  girl  and  no  mistake  — 
a  very  plucky  girl.  "  However,"  I  went  on,  "  it 's  no  good 
to  argue  about  it  —  will  you  promise  to  give  me  j^our  hand  ?  " 

"  Xever !  I  '11  go  to  Ursa  Major  first ;  though  I  've  got  a 
big  enough  bear  here,  in  all  conscience." 

She  looked  so  pretty  that  I  was  almost  inclined  to  let 
her  off,  —  I  was  only  trying  to  frighten  her,  of  course,  — • 
I  knew  how  high  we  could  go  safely,  well  enough,  and  how 


308  SELECTED   READINGS 

valuable  the  life  of  Jenkins  was  to  his  country,  —  but  reso- 
lution is  one  of  the  strong  points  of  my  character,  and  when 
I  Ve  begun  a  thing  I  like  to  carry  it  through ;  so  I  threw 
over  another  sand-bag,  and  whistled  the  Dead  March  in 
"  Saul." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Jenkins,  come,  Tom,  let  us  descend  now, 
and  I  '11  promise  to  say  nothing  whatever  about  this." 

I  continued  the  execution  of  the  Dead  March. 

"  But  if  you  do  not  begin  the  descent  at  once  I  '11  tell 
papa  the  moment  I  set  foot  on  the  ground." 

I  laughed,  seized  another  bag,  and  looking  steadily  at  her, 
said,  "  Will  you  promise  to  give  me  your  hand  ?  " 

"  I  've  answered  you  already." 

Over  went  the  sand,  and  the  solemn  notes  of  the  Dead 
March  resounded  through  the  car. 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman ;  but  I  find  I  was  mis- 
taken. AVhy,  a  chimney-sweeper  would  not  treat  a  lady  in 
such  a  way.  Do  you  know  you  are  risking  your  own  life 
as  well  as  mine  by  your  madness  ?  " 

I  explained  that  I  adored  her  so  much  that  to  die  in 
her  company  would  be  perfect  bliss,  so  that  I  begged 
she  would  not  consider  my  feelings  at  all.  She  dashed 
her  beautiful  hair  from  her  face,  and,  standing  perfectly 
erect,  said,  "  I  command  you  to  begin  the  descent  this 
instant !  " 

The  Dead  March,  whistled  in  a  manner  essentially  gay 
and  lively,  was  the  only  response.  After  a  few  minutes' 
silence,  I  took  up  another  bag,  and  said,  "  We  are  getting 
rather  high;  if  you  do  not  decide  soon  we  shall  have 
Mercury  coming  to  tell  us  that  we  are  trespassing :  —  will 
you  promise  me  your  hand  ?  " 

She  sat  in  sulky  silence  in  the  bottom  of  the  car.  I 
threw  over  the  sand.  Then  she  tried  another  plan.  Throw- 
ing herself  upon  her  knees,  and  bursting  into  tears,  she  said, 
"  Oh,  forgive  me  for  what  I  did  the  other  day.  It  was 
very  wrong;  and  I  am  very  sorr)^  Take  me  home,  and  I 
will  be  a  sister  to  you." 

"Not  a  wife?" 

"  I  can't !    I  can't !  " 

Over  went  the  fourth  bag.  I  began  to  think  she  would 
beat  me  after  all ;  for  I  did  not  like  the  idea  of  going  much 
higher.  I  would  not  give  in  just  yet,  however.  I  wliistled 
for  a  few  minutes,  to  give  her  time  for  reflection,  and  then 


SELECTIONS  309 

said,  "  Fanny,  they  say  that  marriages  are  made  in  heaven : 
if  you  do  not  take  care,  ours  will  be  solemnized  there." 

I  took  up  the  fifth  bag.  "  Come,  my  wife  in  life,  or  my 
companion  in  death:  which  is  it  to  be?  Come,  Fanny,  give 
your  promise." 

I  could  hear  her  sobs.  I  'm  the  softest  creature  breath- 
ing, and  would  not  pain  any  living  thing,  and  I  confess 
she  had  beaten  me.  I  forgave  her  the  ducking;  I  forgave 
her  for  rejecting  me.  I  was  on  the  point  of  flinging  the 
bag  back  into  the  car,  and  saying,  "  Dearest  Fanny,  forgive 
me  for  frightening  you.  Marry  whomsoever  you  wish.  Give 
your  lovely  hand  to  the  lowest  groom  in  your  stables ;  endow 
with  your  priceless  beauty  the  chief  of  the  Pankiwanki 
Indians.  Whatever  happens,  Jenkins  is  your  slave  —  your 
dog  —  your  footstool."  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  saying 
this,  I  repeat,  when  Fanny  suddenly  looked  up,  and  said, 
with  a  queerish  expression  on  her  face: 

"  You  need  not  throw  that  last  bag  over.  I  promise  to 
give  you  my  hand." 

"With  all  your  heart?" 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

I  tossed  the  bag  into  the  bottom  of  the  car,  and  opened 
the  valve.  The  balloon  descended.  Will  you  believe  it?  — 
when  we  reached  the  ground,  and  the  balloon  had  been  given 
over  to  its  recovered  master,  when  I  had  helped  Fanny 
tenderly  to  the  earth,  and  turned  toward  her  to  receive 
anew  the  promise  of  her  affection  and  her  hand,  —  will  you 
believe  it  ?  —  she  gave  me  a  box  on  the  ear  that  upset  me 
against  the  car,  and  running  to  her  father,  who  at  that 
moment  came  up,  she  related  to  him  and  to  the  assembled 
company  what  she  called  my  disgraceful  conduct  in  the 
balloon,  and  ended  by  informing  me  that  all  of  her  hand 
that  I  was  likely  to  get  had  already  been  bestowed  upon 
my  ear,  which  she  assured  me  had  been  given  with  all  her 
heart. 

Litchfield  Moselet. 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 

The  selection  begins  with  easy,  interested  narrative,  requiring  the 
suggestion  of  a  smile  to  indicate  its  humorous  quality.  Driving,  etc., 
are  to  be  given  with  an  upward  inflection  on  each  word,  thus  avoiding 
the  monotony  of  a  list.  A  pause  after  daughter,  for  three  reasons: 
it  is  a  proper  name,  it  is  the  name  of  the  heroine,  and  it  is  to  distin- 
guish thiis  from  other  jvossible  daughters;  was  often  my  companion  on 


310  SELECTED   READINGS 

these  expeditions  demands  animation,  as  of  a  pleasant  recollection; 
struck  is  emphatic ;  a  pause  is  needed  before  stunning  to  bring  it  out 
more  clearly.  She  could  ride  like  Nimrod,  etc.,  is  said  boastfully,  with 
a  confidential  turn  following  an  ellipsis  as  he  concludes,  I've  even  seen 
her  smoke! 

A  gentle  rubbing  of  the  palms  of  the  hands  together  accompanies 
Oh,  she  was  a  stunner!  At  whistle,  if  it  is  possible,  there  should  be  a 
whistle,  and  at  laugh  a  hearty  laugh.  Increasing  emphasis  with  a 
slowly  falling  inflection  marks  the  phrases  ending  together,  which  are 
uttered  in  a  confidential  tone ;  a  pause  before  Fanny  and  before  Tom 
is  requisite.  Do  not  say  termunation.  Pause  before  saying  proposing, 
to  excite  inquiry.  What  follows  of  this  paragraph  may  be  called 
"shuttle  work,"  a  casting  of  the  successive  phrases  back  and  forth. 
Learn  what  gudgeons  means.  A  period  of  suspense  before  my  wife, 
which  is  to  be  said  with  feeling. 

Fanny's  response  is  said  peevishly,  as  to  one  spoiling  sport.  Tom's 
reply  expresses  disgust.  Fanny's  tone  in  I  'II  tell  you  what,  now  changes 
to  petulance.  Astonishment  is  shown  in  she  sent  me  flying,  etc.  Re- 
venge! revenge!  is  repeated  at  the  close  of  the  paragraph,  giving  an 
opportunity  to  show  the  various  degrees  of  feeling  involved.  Hideous 
mockery  of  mirth  is  said  in  a  lower  key,  being  parenthetical.  Do  not 
say  unuversal.  There  are  fi.ve  syllables  in  in-va-ri-a-bly,  and  the  sec- 
ond a  has  the  sound  of  the  second  e  in  ever. 

Opportunity  is  not  pronounced  as  if  spelled  ahpportoonuty :  short  o 
is  to  be  sounded  clearly  at  the  beginning ;  the  second  o  is  the  neutral 
vowel ;  the  u  is  long  with  its  initial  y  sound  distinct,  and  the  i  is  not 
the  neutral  vowel.  Offered  is  not  awffered  —  the  initial  sound  is  short 
o  again,  somewhat  narrowed  by  the  /  following.  A-er-o-naut,  in  four 
syllables,  the  first  vowel  having  the  soimd  of  long  a.  Not  b'loon,  nor 
manugemunt. 

Fanny's  Am  I  to  lose,  etc.,  begins  in  a  vixenish  tone,  changing  to 
entreaty  when  she  addresses  Tom.    Come  along,  then,  is  said  hurriedly. 

A  slight  delay  before  decent  to  express  concealed  intention.  Do 
not  say  hessitation.  How  jolly!  has  a  laugh  under  it,  a  giggle  of  satis- 
faction at  having  had  her  own  way. 

Very  kind  of  me  is  at  once  patronizing  and  slightly  apprehensive, 
and  the  apprehension  deepens  in  she  hoped  that  I  thoroughly  understood, 
etc.    Noil)  ivas  my  time  is  said  slowly  and  with  great  satisfaction. 

/  understand,  etc.,  offers  an  opening  for  the  student's  invention. 
It  may  be  treated  lightly  or  seriously,  or  with  a  mixture  of  both  coupled 
with  a  certain  note  of  recklessness. 

What  do  you  mean?  shows  startled  inquiry. 

Tom's  reply.  Foolish?  has  a  pronounced  upward  inflection. 

The  hands  are  not  to  be  kept  idle  while  the  story  of  the  sand-bags 
is  told.  The  action  is  to  be  suited  to  the  word,  by  suggestion.  Go  it, 
you  cripples!  shows  reckless  gayety. 

Why,  you're  mad,  surely!  expresses  apprehension  approaching 
terror. 

Only  with  love,  etc.,  begins  jocosely  and  ends  with  affectionate 
avowal. 

I  gave  you  an  answer,  etc.,  is  both  flippant  and  spiteful. 

The  gesture  indicating  those  five  sarid-bags  is  to  be  held  through  the 
sentence.    Between  Mrs.  and  Jenkins  there  is  a  decided  pause. 

I  won't,  etc.,  splutters  like  a  Catherine  wheel. 


SELECTIONS  £J11 

Irony  is  shovsTi  in  a  very  ladylike  way,  and  very  plucky  is  said  slowly 
and  emphatically. 

In  the  succeeding  demands  for  Fanny's  hand  deepening  degrees  of 
sohcitude  are  demanded. 

Hesitate  before  Ursa  Major.  Big  enough  bear  is  to  be  said  through 
the  teeth. 

Tender  recollection  is  shown  in  She  looked  so  pretty.  Val-u-a-ble, 
not  voluble.  I  knew  how,  etc.,  through  the  parenthesis,  is  in  the  nature 
of  brag.  Not  ressolootion.  My  is  emphatic  in  my  character.  Whistled, 
etc.,  has  the  upward  inflection. 

Come,  Mr.  Jenkins,  etc.,  shows  chplomacy  and  wheedling. 

/  continued,  etc.,  is  said  \v'ith  an  up  and  down  modulation,  using 
the  eye  to  express  fixed  determination  and  intention. 

But  if  you  do  not,  etc.,  is  a  distinct  threat. 

Will  you  promise?  has  the  downward  inflection. 

I've  answered  you  already  is  said  with  indignation. 

/  thought  you  were  a  gentleman  is  wholly  sarcastic.  A  pause  before 
chimney-sweeper  to  hint  at  the  search  for  a  term  strong  enough,  while 
the  voice  is  raised.  The  voice  breaks  a  little  at  risking  your  own  life 
to  show  that  she  is  baflied. 

/  command  you  is  said  with  full  force. 

Will  you  promise?  shows  still  greater  intensity.  It  is  the  fourth 
demand. 

Oh,  forgive  me,  etc.,  is  not  real  crying,  but  an  attractive  imitation 
of  it. 

/  took  up  the  fifth  bag  is  said  slowly  and  with  fixed  resolve.  Which 
is  it  to  be?  is  said  with  a  rising  voice. 

Slave,  dog,  footstool  are  increasingly  emphatic. 

You  need  not  throw,  etc.,  is  said  cunningly  and  deceitfully. 

Regret,  delight  at  the  girl's  shrewdness,  unpleasant  recollection, 
and  the  sense  of  fun  at  the  humor  of  the  situation  combine  in  the  clos- 
ing paragraph. 


IN    THE    PANTRY 

OH,  dear !    Just  see  that  little  pie,  —  mince,  and  it  smells 
so  good! 
Ma  said  I  must  n't  touch  it;  but  I  '11  just  bet  she  would 
If  she  stood  here  a-starvin',  and  all  for  want  of  food. 
When  persons  see  pies  made  for  'em  they  eat  'em;   wish  I 

could. 
This  is  the  worst  old  pantry,  it 's  full  of  things  to  eat: 
There's  tlie  jam  I  take  to  recess  —  'way  up  there  —  it's 

awful  sweet. 
Ma  said  if  I  talk  naughty,  or  disobey,  or  lie, 
I  won't  go  to  heaven  and  play  liarps  when  I  die. 
What  is  heaven,  anyhow  ?    Ted  ain't  goin'  there, 
'Cause  he  hooked  on  bob-sleds,  and  Ma  told  him  not  to  dare. 


312  SELECTED   READINGS 

She  whipped  him  just  the  other  day,  and  he  said,  Oh,  he  'd 

quit! 
An'  I  saw  him  the  next  mornin'  a-laughin'  like  he  'd  split, 
An'  go  in'  just  a-flyin'  on  behind  a  big  bob-sled ; 
He  never  saw  me  lookin';  but  I  don't  squeal  on  Ted. 
Oh !  little  pie,  you  don't  know  what  wicked  folks  there  be 
A-tellin'  fibs  in  this  big  world.    There 's  no  one  good  but  me. 
I  don't  see  where  heaven 's  ever  goin'  to  get  a  crowd. 
Our  cook  says  the  preacher  '11  never  go  there  she  allowed, 
An'  he  says  no  one  else  will.  —  Oh,  dear !  I  wonder  if  one  bite 
Is  just  as  wicked  as  a  pie;  I  shouldn't  think  so,  quite.  — 
Our  doctor  won't  go  neither  'cause  he  said  my  aunt  would  die. 
An'  now  she  's  as  well  as  I  am ;  so  that  was  most  a  lie. 
But  he  'd  look  funny,  anyhow,  a-flyin'  through  the  sky, 
'Cause  he  's  so  awful  big  and  fat.    Oh !  would  Ma  miss  that 

pie? 
Yes,  'cause  there  's  no  more  like  it.  —  But  I  know  a  worse 

thing  yet; 
It 's  perfectly  awful !   an'  I  never  can  forget : 
There 's  no  Saint  Nicholas  or  Santa  Glaus  for  me  or  Ted ; 
'Cause  the  other  night,  long  after  she  'd  sent  us  up  to  bed. 
We  crept  down  to  the  parlor  door, 
An'  there  was  all  our  presents  a-lyin'  on  the  floor. 
An'  Ma  was  sortin'  candy ;  an'  we  went  back  an'  cried. 
We  never  told ;   but  then  we  talked.  —  Now  some  one  must 

have  lied.  — 
I  don't  believe  there 's  another  soul  but  would  eat  that  pie.  — 
I  don't  think  I  'd  like  heaven  anyhow :  it  must  be  hard  to  fly. 
If  Ma  and  Daddy  told  us  fibs,  an'  Ted  ain't  anywhere, 
I  '11  just  bet  a  nickel  there  won't  be  nobody  there. 
There 's  Ma  a-goin'  down  the  street.     Heaven 's  so  awful 

high, 
An'  I  '11  be  so  dreadful  lonesome.  —  This  is  the  bestest  pie ! 

Mabel  Dixon. 


VI 
SCENES    AND     DIALOGUES 


VI  — SCENES  AND   DIALOGUES 


DIALOGUE   BETWEEN   NAPOLEON   AND  A 
STRANGE    LADY* 

Scene  from  "The  Man  of  Destiny" 

L^\J)Y.    How  can  I  thank  you,  General,  for  your  protection  ? 

Napoleox  [turning  on  her  suddenly].  My  despatches: 
come !     [He  puts  out  his  hand  for  the^n.] 

Lady.  General.  [She  involuntarily  puts  her  hands  on  her 
fichu  as  if  to  protect  something  there.] 

Napoleon.  You  tricked  that  blockhead  out  of  them.  You 
disguised  yourself  as  a  man.  I  want  my  despatches.  They 
are  in  the  bosom  of  your  dress,  under  your  hands. 

Lady  [quickly  removing  her  hands].  Oh,  how  unkindly 
you  are  speaking  to  me!  [She  taJces  her  handherchief  from 
her  fichu.]  You  frighten  me.  [She  touches  her  eyes  as  if 
to  wipe  away  a  tear.] 

Napoleon.  I  see  you  don't  know  me,  madam,  or  you 
would  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  pretending  to  cry. 

Lady  [producing  an  effect  of  smiling  through  her  tears]. 
Yes,  I  do  know  you.  You  are  the  famous  General  Buona- 
parte. [She  gives  the  name  a  marked  Italian  pronunciation 
—  Bwaw-na  parr-ie.] 

jSTapoleon  [angrily,  ivith  the  French  pronunciation]. 
Bonaparte,  madam,  Bonaparte.    The  papers,  if  you  please. 

Lady.  But  I  assure  you  —  [He  snatches  the  handkerchief 
rudely  from  her.]     General !     [Indignantly.] 

Napoleon  [taking  the  other  handkerchief  from  his 
breast].  You  were  good  enough  to  lend  one  of  your  hand- 
kerchiefs to  my  lieutenant  when  you  robbed  him.  [He  looks 
at  the  two  handkerchiefs.]  They  match  one  another.  [He 
smells  them.]  The  same  scent.  [He  flings  them  down  on 
the  table.]  I  am  waiting  for  the  despatches.  T  shall  take 
them,  if  necessary,  with  as  little  ceremony  as  the  handker- 
chief.t 

•  Copyright,  1905,  b]i  Brenlano's. 

t  7711.1  limlorical  incident  was  used  eightu  years  later,  by  M .  Victorien  Sardou,  in 
his  drama  entitled  "  Dora." 


316  SELECTED   READINGS 

Lady  [in  dignified  reproof].  General:  do  you  threaten 
women  ? 

Napoleon  [bluntly].    Yes. 

Lady  [disconcerted,  trying  to  gain  time].  But  I  don't 
understand  —  I  — 

Napoleon.  You  understand  perfectly.  You  came  here 
because  your  Austrian  employers  calculated  that  I  was  six 
leagues  away.  I  am  always  to  be  found  where  my  enemies 
don't  expect  me.  You  have  walked  into  the  lion's  den. 
Come :  you  are  a  brave  woman.  Be  a  sensible  one :  I  have 
no  time  to  waste.  The  papers.  [He  advances  a  step 
ominously.] 

Lady  [breaking  down  in  the  childish  rage  of  impotence, 
and  throiving  herself  in  tears  on  a  chair].  I  brave!  How 
little  you  know !  I  have  spent  the  day  in  an  agony  of  fear, 
I  have  a  pain  here  from  the  tightening  of  my  heart  at  every 
suspicious  look,  every  threatening  movement.  Do  you  think 
every  one  is  as  brave  as  you?  Oh,  why  will  not  you  brave 
people  do  the  brave  things?  Why  do  you  leave  them  to  us, 
who  have  no  courage  at  all  ?  I  'm  not  brave :  I  shrink  from 
violence:   danger  makes  me  miserable. 

Napoleon  [interested] .  Then  why  have  you  thrust  your- 
self into  danger? 

Lady.  Because  there  is  no  other  way :  I  can  trust  nobody 
else.  And  now  it  is  all  useless  —  all  because  of  you,  who  have 
no  fear,  because  you  have  no  heart,  no  feeling,  no —  [She 
breaks  off,  and  throws  herself  on  her  knees.]  Ah,  General, 
let  me  go:  let  me  go  without  asking  any  questions.  You 
shall  have  your  despatches  and  letters :   I  swear  it. 

Napoleon  [holding  out  his  hand].  Yes:  I  am  waiting 
for  them.  [She  gasps,  daunted  by  his  ruthless  promptitude 
into  despair  of  moving  him  by  cajolery;  but  as  she  looks 
up  perplexedly  at  him,  it  is  plain  that  she  is  racking  her 
brains  for  some  device  to  outwit  him.  He  meets  her  regard 
inflexibly.] 

Lady  [rising  at  last  with  a  quiet  little  sigh].  I  will  get 
them  for  you.   They  are  in  my  room.    [She  turns  to  the  door.] 

Napoleon.    I  shall  accompany  you,  madam. 

Lady  [drawing  herself  up  with  a  noble  air  of  offended 
delicacy].  I  cannot  permit  you.  General,  to  enter  my 
chamber. 

Napoleon.  Then  you  shall  stay  here,  madam,  whilst  I 
have  your  chamber  searched  for  my  papers. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  317 

Lady  [spitefully,  openly  giving  up  her  planl.  You  may- 
save  yourself  the  trouble.    They  are  not  there. 

Napoleon.  No :  I  have  already  told  you  where  they  are. 
l^Pointing  to  her  breast.] 

Lady  [ivith  pretty  piteousness].  General:  I  only  want 
to  keep  one  little  private  letter.    Only  one.    Let  me  have  it. 

Napoleon  [cold  and  stern].  Is  that  a  reasonable  demand, 
madam  ? 

Lady  [encouraged  by  his  not  refusing  point-blanl-'].  No; 
but  that  is  why  you  must  grant  it.  Are  your  own  demands 
reasonable?  Thousands  of  lives  for  the  sake  of  your  vic- 
tories, your  ambitions,  your  destiny !  And  what  I  ask  is  such 
a  little  thing.  And  I  am  only  a  weak  woman,  and  you  a 
brave  man.  [She  looks  at  him  with  her  eyes  full  of  tender 
pleading  and  is  about  to  I'ncel  to  him  agaiii.] 

Napoleox  [brusquely].  Get  up,  get  up.  [He  turns 
moodily  away  and  takes  a  turn  across  the  room,  pausing  for 
a  moment  to  say,  over  his  shoulder.]  You're  talking  non- 
sense; and  you  know  it.  [She  gets  up  and  sits  down  in  al- 
most listless  despair  on  the  couch.  When  he  turns  and  sees 
her  there,  he  feels  that  his  victory  is  complete,  and  that  he 
may  now  indulge  in  a  little  play  with  his  victim.  He  comes 
back  and  sits  beside  her.  She  looks  alarmed  and  moves  a 
little  away  from  him;  but  a  ray  of  rallying  hope  beams  from 
her  eye.  He  begins  like  a  man  enjoying  some  secret  joke.] 
How  do  you  know  I  am  a  brave  man  ? 

Lady  [amazed].  You!  General  Buonaparte.  [Italian 
pronunciation.] 

Napoleon.  Yes,  I,  General  Bonaparte.  [Emphasizing 
the  French  pronunciation.] 

Lady.  Oh,  how  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  You !  Who 
stood  only  two  days  ago  at  the  bridge  at  Lodi,  with  the  air 
full  of  death,  fighting  a  duel  with  cannons  across  the  river! 
[Shuddering.]     Oh,  you  do  brave  things. 

Napoleon.    So  do  you. 

Lady.  I!  [With  a  sudden  odd  thought.]  Oh!  Are  you 
a  coward  ? 

Napoleon  [laughing  grimly  and  jyinching  her  cheek]. 
That  is  the  one  question  you  must  never  ask  a  soldier.  The 
sergeant  asks  after  the  recruit's  height,  his  age,  his  wind, 
his  limb,  but  never  after  his  courage.  [He  gets  up  and  walks 
nhont  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  his  head  bowed,  chuck' 
ling  to  himself.] 


318  SELECTED    READINGS 

Lady  [as  if  she  had  found  it  no  laughing  matter~\.  Ah, 
you  can  laugh  at  fear !    Then  you  don't  know  what  fear  is. 

Napoleon  [coming  hehind  the  couch'].  Tell  me  this. 
Suppose  you  could  get  that  letter  by  coming  to  me  over  the 
bridge  at  Lodi  the  day  before  yesterday !  Suppose  there  had 
been  no  other  way,  and  that  this  was  a  sure  way  —  if  only 
you  escaped  the  cannon!  {She  shudders  and  covers  her  eyes 
for  a  moment  with  her  hands.]    Would  you  have  been  afraid  ? 

Lady.  Oh,  horribly  afraid,  agonizingly  afraid.  [She 
presses  her  hand  on  her  heart.]    It  hurts  only  to  imagine  it. 

Napoleon  [inflexibly].  Would  you  have  come  for  the 
despatches  ? 

Lady  [overcome  hy  the  imagined  horror].  Don't  ask  me. 
I  must  have  come. 

Napoleon.    Why  ? 

Lady.  Because  I  must.  Because  there  would  have  been 
no  other  way. 

Napoleon  [with  conviction].  Because  you  would  have 
wanted  my  letter  enough  to  bear  your  fear.  There  is  only 
one  universal  passion:  fear.  Of  all  the  thousand  qualities 
a  man  may  have,  the  only  one  you  will  find  as  certainly  in 
the  youngest  drummer  boy  in  my  army  as  in  me,  is  fear.  It 
is  fear  that  makes  men  fight;  it  is  indifference  that  makes 
them  run  away :  fear  is  the  mainspring  of  war.  Fear !  —  I 
know  fear  well,  better  than  you,  better  than  any  woman.  I 
once  saw  a  regiment  of  good  Swiss  soldiers  massacred  by  a 
mob  in  Paris  because  I  was  afraid  to  interfere:  I  felt  my- 
self a  coward  to  the  tips  of  my  toes  as  I  looked  on  at 
it.  Seven  months  ago  I  revenged  my  shame  by  pounding 
that  mob  to  death  with  cannonballs.  Well,  what  of  that? 
Has  fear  ever  held  a  man  back  from  ami:hing  he  really 
wanted  —  or  a  woman  either  ?  Never.  Come  with  me ;  and 
I  will  show  you  twenty  thousand  cowards  who  will  risk 
death  every  day  for  the  price  of  a  glass  of  brandy.  And  do 
you  think  there  are  no  women  in  the  army,  braver  than  the 
men,  because  their  lives  are  worth  less  ?  Psha !  I  think 
nothing  of  your  fear  or  your  bravery.  If  you  had  had  to 
come  across  t-o  me  at  Lodi,  3'Ou  would  not  have  been  afraid; 
once  on  the  bridge,  eveiy  other  feeling  would  have  gone 
down  before  the  necessity  —  the  necessity  —  for  making  your 
way  to  my  side  and  getting  what  you  wanted. 

And  now,  suppose  you  had  done  all  this  —  suppose  you  had 
come  safely  out  with  that  letter  in  your  hand,  knowing  that 


SCENES   AND    DIALOGUES  319 

when  the  hour  came,  your  fear  had  tightened  not  your  heart, 
but  your  grip  of  your  own  purpose  —  that  it  had  ceased  to 
be  fear,  and  had  become  strength,  penetration,  vigilance,  iron 
resolution  —  how  would  you  answer  then  if  you  were  asked 
whether  you  were  a  coward ! 

Lady  [rising'].    Ah,  you  are  a  hero,  a  real  hero. 

Napoleon.  Pooh !  there  's  no  such  thing  as  a  real  hero. 
[He  strolls  down  the  room,  making  light  of  her  enthusiasm, 
hut  by  no  means  displeased  with  himself  for  having  evoked  it.] 

Lady.  Ah,  yes,  there  is.  There  is  a  difference  between 
what  you  call  my  bravery  and  yours.  You  wanted  to  win 
the  battle  of  Lodi  for  yourself  and  not  for  any  one  else, 
did  n't  you  ? 

Napoleon.  Of  course.  [Suddenly  recollecting  himself.] 
Stop  :  no.  [He  pulls  himself  piously  together,  and  says,  like 
a  man  conducting  a  religious  service.]  I  am  only  the  servant 
of  the  French  Republic,  following  humbly  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  heroes  of  classical  antiquity.  I  win  battles  for  human- 
ity —  for  my  country,  not  for  myself. 

Kajdy  [disappointed].  Oh,  then  you  are  only  a  womanish 
hero,  after  all.  [She  sits  down  again,  all  her  enthusiasm 
gone,  her  elbow  on  the  end  of  the  covx^h,  and  her  cheek 
propped  on  her  hand.] 

Napoleon  [greatly  astonished] .    "Womanish  ! 

Lady  [listlessly].  Yes,  like  me.  [Wtf/i  deep  melancholy.] 
Do  you  think  that  if  I  only  want-ed  those  despatches  for 
myself,  I  dare  venture  into  a  battle  for  them  ?  No :  if  that 
were  all,  I  should  not  have  the  courage  to  ask  to  see  you  at 
your  hotel,  even.  My  courage  is  mere  slavishness:  it  is  of 
no  use  to  me  for  my  own  purposes.  It  is  only  through  love, 
through  pity,  through  the  instinct  to  save  and  protect  some 
one  else,  that  I  can  do  the  things  that  terrify  me. 

'N AVOLEON  [contemptuously].  Pshaw!  [He  turns  slight- 
ingly away  from  her.] 

Lady.  Aha  !  now  you  see  that  I  'ra  not  really  brave.  [Re- 
lapsing into  petulant  listlessness.]  But  what  right  have  you 
to  despise  me  if  you  only  win  your  battles  for  others  —  for 
your  country?  Through  patriotism!  That  is  what  I  call 
womanish  :   it  is  so  like  a  Frenchman  ! 

Napoleon  [furiously].    I  am  no  Frenchman. 

T;ADY  [innocently].  I  thought  you  said  you  won  the 
l)attle  of  Tjodi  for  your  country,  General  Bu —  shall  I  pro- 
nounce it  in  Italian  or  French? 


320  SELECTED   READINGS 

Napoleon.  You  are  presuming  on  my  patience,  madam. 
I  was  born  a  French  subject,  but  not  in  France. 

Lady  [folding  her  arms  on  the  end  of  the  couch,  and 
leaning  on  them  with  a  marked  access  of  interest  in  him^. 
You  were  not  born  a  subject  at  all,  I  think. 

Napoleon  [greatly  pleased,  starting  on  a  fresh  march'\. 
Eh?    Eh?    You  think  not. 

Lady.    I  am  sure  of  it. 

Napoleon.  Well,  well,  perhaps  not.  [The  self-complac- 
ency of  his  assent  catches  his  own  ear.  He  stops  short,  red- 
dening. Then,  composing  himself  into  a  solemn  attitude, 
modelled  on  the  heroes  of  classical  antiquity,  he  takes  a  high 
moral  tone.^  But  we  must  not  live  for  ourselves  alone,  little 
one.  Never  forget  that  we  should  always  think  of  others, 
and  work  for  others,  and  lead  and  govern  them  for  their  own 
good.  Self-sacrifice  is  the  foundation  of  all  true  nobility  of 
character. 

Lady  [again  relaxing  her  attitude  ivith  a  sigh.^  Ah,  it 
is  easy  to  see  that  you  have  never  tried  it.  General. 

Napoleon  [indignantly,  forgetting  all  about  Brutus  and 
Scipio].    What  do  you  mean  by  that  speech,  madam? 

Lady.  Have  n't  you  noticed  that  people  always  exaggerate 
the  value  of  the  things  they  have  n't  got  ?  The  poor  think 
they  only  need  riches  to  be  quite  happy  and  good.  Every- 
body worships  truth,  purity,  unselfishness,  for  the  same 
reason  —  because  they  have  no  experience  of  them.  Oh,  if 
they  only  knew ! 

Napoleon  [with  angry  derision'].  If  they  only  knew! 
Pray,  do  you  know? 

Lady  [with  her  arms  stretched  and  her  hands  clasped  on 
her  knees,  looking  straight  before  her].  Yes.  I  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  born  good.  [Glancing  up  at  him  for  a 
moment.]  And  it  is  a  misfortune,  I  can  tell  you,  General. 
I  really  am  truthful  and  unselfish  and  all  the  rest  of  it ; 
and  it 's  nothing  but  cowardice ;  want  of  character ;  want 
of  being  really,  strongly,  positively  oneself. 

Napoleon.  Ha?  [Turning  to  her  quickly  with  a  flash 
of  strong  interest.] 

Lady  [earnestly,  with  rising  enthusiasm'].  What  is  the 
secret  of  your  power?  Only  that  you  believe  in  yourself. 
You  can  fight  and  conquer  for  yourself  and  for  nobody  else. 
You  are  not  afraid  of  your  own  destiny.  You  teach  us  what 
we  all  might  be  if  we  had  the  will  and  courage;    and  that 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  321 

[suddenly  sinl-ing  on  her  Tcnees  before  him]  is  why  we  all 
begin  to  worship  you.     \_She  kisses  his  haiids.] 

Napoleox  [embarrassed].    Tut,  tut!    Pray  rise,  madam. 

Lady.  Do  not  refuse  my  homage :  it  is  your  right.  You 
will  be  emperor  of  France  — 

Napoleon"  [huriiedly].    Take  care!  Treason! 

Lady  [i7isisting].  Yes,  emperor  of  France;  then  of 
Europe;  perhaps  of  the  world.  I  am  only  the  first  subject 
to  swear  allegiance.    [Again  kissing  his  hand.]    My  emperor ! 

Napoleon  [overcome,  raising  her].  Pray,  pray.  No,  no, 
little  one :  this  is  folly.  Come :  be  calm,  be  calm.  [Petting 
her.]     There,  there,  my  girl. 

Lady  [struggling  with  happy  tears].  Yes,  I  know  it  is 
an  impertinence  in  me  to  tell  you  what  you  must  know  far 
better  than  I  do.    But  you  are  not  angry  with  me,  are  you  ? 

Napoleon.  Angry !  No,  no  :  not  a  bit,  not  a  bit.  Come : 
you  are  a  very  clever  and  sensible  and  interesting  little 
woman.     [He  pats  her  on  the  cheek.]     Shall  we  be  friends  ? 

Lady  [e7iraptured].  Your  friend!  You  will  let  me  be 
your  friend !  Oh !  [She  offers  him  both  her  hands  with  a 
radiant  smile.]     You  see :   I  show  my  confidence  in  you. 

Napoleon  [with  a  yell  of  rage,  his  eyes  flashing] .    ^^liat ! 

Lady.     What's  the  matter? 

Napoleon.  Show  your  confidence  in  me !  So  that  I  may 
show  ray  confidence  in  you  in  return  by  letting  you  give  me 
the  slip  with  the  despatches,  eh?  Ah,  Dalila,  Dalila,  you 
have  been  trying  your  tricks  on  me;  and  I  have  been  as 
great  a  gull  as  my  jackass  of  a  lieutenant.  [He  advances 
threateningly  on  her.]  Come:  the  despatches.  Quick:  I 
am  not  to  be  trifled  with  now. 

Lady  [flying  round  the  couch].    General  — 

Napoleon.  Quick,  I  tell  you.  [He  passes  siviftly  up  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  intercepts  her  as  she  makes  for  the 
vineyard.] 

Lady  [at  hay,  confronting  him].  You  dare  address  me  in 
that  tone ! 

Napoleon.    Dare ! 

Lady.  Yes,  dare.  Who  are  you  that  you  should  presume 
to  speak  to  me  in  that  coarse  way?  Oh,  the  vile,  vulgar 
Corsican  adventurer  comes  out  in  you  very  easily. 

'N AVOLEoyi  [beside  himself].  You  she-devil !  [Savagely.] 
Once  more,  and  only  once,  will  you  give  me  those  papers  or 
shall  I  tear  them  from  you  —  by  force  ? 

21 


322  SELECTED    READINGS 

Lady  [letting  her  hands  fall].  Tear  them  from  me  — 
by  force !  [As  he  glares  at  her  like  a  tiger  about  to  spring, 
she  crosses  her  arms  on  her  breast  in  the  attitude  of  a  martyr. 
The  gesture  and  pose  instantly  awaken  his  theatrical  in- 
stinct: he  forgets  his  rage  in  the  desire  to  show  her  that  in 
acting,  too,  she  has  met  her  match.  He  keeps  her  a  moment 
in  suspense;  then  suddenly  clears  up  his  countenance;  puts 
his  hands  behind  him  with  provoking  coolness;  looks  at  her 
up  and  down  a  couple  of  times;  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff ; 
wipes  his  fingers  carefully  and  puts  up  his  handkerchief, 
her  heroic  pose  becoming  more  and  more  ridiculous  all  the 
time.] 

Napoleon  [at  last].    Well? 

Lady  [disconcerted,  but  with  her  arms  still  crossed  de- 
votedly].   "Well:   what  are  you  going  to  do? 

Napoleon.    Spoil  your  attitude. 

Lady.  You  brute!  [Abandoning  the  attitude,  she  comes 
to  the  end  of  the  couch,  where  she  turns  with  her  back  to  it, 
leaning  against  it  and  facing  him  with  her  hands  behind 
her.] 

Napoleon.  Ah,  that 's  better.  Now  listen  to  me.  I  like 
you.    What 's  more,  I  value  your  respect. 

Lady.    You  value  what  you  have  not  got,  then. 

Napoleon.  I  shall  have  it  presently.  Now  attend  to  me. 
Suppose  I  were  to  allow  myself  to  be  abashed  by  the  respect 
due  to  your  sex,  your  beauty,  your  heroism,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it?  Suppose  I,  with  nothing  but  such  sentimental  stuff 
to  stand  between  these  muscles  of  mine  and  those  papers 
which  you  have  about  you,  and  which  I  want  and  mean  to 
have:  suppose  I,  with  the  prize  within  my  grasp,  were  to 
falter  and  sneak  away  with  my  hands  empty ;  or,  what  would 
be  worse,  cover  up  my  weakness  by  playing  the  magnanimous 
hero,  and  sparing  you  the  violence  I  dared  not  use,  would 
you  not  despise  me  from  the  depths  of  your  woman's  soul? 
Would  any  woman  be  such  a  fool?  Well,  Bonaparte  can 
rise  to  the  situation  and  act  like  a  woman  when  it  is  neces- 
sary.   Do  you  understand? 

[The  lady,  without  speaking,  stands  upright,  and  takes  a 
packet  of  papers  from  her  bosom.  For  a  moment  she  has 
an  intense  impulse  to  dash  them,  in  his  face.  But  her  good 
breeding  cuts  her  off  from  any  vulgar  method  of  relief.  She 
hands  them  to  him  politely,  only  averting  her  head.  The 
moment  he  takes  them,  she  hurries  across  to  the  other  side 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  323 

of  the  room;  covers  Iter  face  with  Tier  liands;  and  sits  down, 
with  her  body  turned  away  to  the  hack  of  the  chair. 

Xapoleox  [gloating  over  the  paper^.  Aha!  That's 
right.  That's  right.  [Before  opening  them  he  looks  at  her 
and  says.^  Excuse  me.  [He  sees  that  she  is  hiding  her  face.^ 
Very  angr}'  with  me,  eh?  [He  unties  the  packet,  the  seal 
of  ichich  is  already  broken,  and  puts  it  on  the  table  to  ex- 
amine  its  contents.] 

Lady  [quietly,  taking  doivn  her  hands  and  shoiving  that 
she  is  not  crying,  but  only  thinking].  No.  You  were  right. 
But  I  am  sorry  for  you. 

Napoleon  [pausing  in  the  act  of  taking  the  uppermost 
paper  from  the  packet].    Sorry  for  me!    Why? 

Lady.    I  am  going  to  see  you  lose  your  honor. 

Napoleox.  Hm !  Nothing  worse  than  that?  [Retakes 
up  the  paper.] 

Lady.    And  your  happiness. 

Napoleon.  Happiness,  little  woman,  is  the  most  tedious 
thing  in  the  world  to  me.  Should  I  be  what  I  am  if  I  cared 
for  happiness?    Anything  else? 

Lady.  Nothing  —  [He  interrupts  her  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  satisfaction.  Site  proceeds  quietly.]  except  that  you 
will  cut  a  very  foolish  figure  in  the  eyes  of  France. 

Napoleon  [quickly].  What?  [The  hand  holding  the 
paper  involuntarily  drops.  The  lady  looks  at  him  enigmatic- 
ally in  tranquil  silence.  He  throws  the  letter  down  and 
breaks  out  in  a  torrent  of  scolding.]  What  do  you  mean? 
Eh?  Are  you  at  your  tricks  again?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  these  papers  contain  ?  I  '11  tell  you.  First,  my 
information  as  to  Beaulieu's  retreat.  There  are  only  two 
things  he  can  do  —  leather-brained  idiot  that  he  is  !  —  shut 
himself  up  in  Mantua  or  violate  the  neutrality  of  Venice 
by  taking  Peschiera.  You  are  one  of  old  Leatherbrain's 
spies :  he  has  discovered  that  he  has  been  betrayed,  and  has 
sent  you  to  intercept  the  information  at  all  hazards  —  as  if 
that  could  save  him  from  me,  the  old  fool !  The  other  papers 
are  only  my  usual  correspondence  from  Paris,  of  which  you 
know  nothing. 

Lady  [prompt  and  businesslike].  General:  let  us  make  a 
fair  division.  Take  the  information  your  spies  have  sent  you 
about  the  Austrian  army,  and  give  me  the  Paris  correspond- 
ence.   That  will  content  me. 

Napoleon  [his  breath  taken  away  by  the  coolness  of  the 


324  SELECTED   READINGS 

proposal].  A  fair  di —  [He  gasps.]  It  seems  to  me, 
madam,  that  you  have  come  to  regard  my  letters  as  your 
own  property,  of  which  I  am  trying  to  rob  you. 

Lady  [earnestly].  ISTo :  on  my  honor  I  ask  for  no  letter 
of  yours  —  not  a  word  that  has  been  written  by  you  or  to 
you.  That  packet  contains  a  stolen  letter:  a  letter  written 
by  a  woman  to  a  man  —  a  man  not  her  husband  —  a  letter 
that  means  disgrace,  infamy  — 

Napoleon.    A  love  letter? 

Lady  [bitter-siveetly].  "Wliat  else  but  a  love  letter  could 
stir  up  so  much  hate? 

Napoleon.  Why  is  it  sent  to  me?  To  put  the  husband 
in  my  power,  eh  ? 

Lady.  No,  no :  it  can  be  of  no  use  to  you :  I  swear  that  it 
will  cost  you  nothing  to  give  it  to  me.  It  has  been  sent  to  you 
out  of  sheer  malice  —  solely  to  injure  the  woman  who  wrote  it. 

Napoleon.  Then  why  not  send  it  to  her  husband  instead 
of  to  me? 

Lady  [completely  taken  dbach].  Oh  !  [Sinking  hack  into 
the  chair.]     I  —  I  don't  know.     [She  breaks  down.] 

Napoleon.  Aha  !  I  thought  so :  a  little  romance  to  get 
the  papers  back.  [He  throws  the  packet  on  the  table  and 
confronts  her  with  cynical  good-humor.]  Per  Bacco,  little 
woman,  I  can't  help  admiring  you.  If  I  could  lie  like  that, 
it  would  save  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

Lady  [wringing  her  hands.]  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  really  had 
told  you  some  lie  !  You  would  have  believed  me  .then.  The 
truth  is  the  one  thing  that  nobody  will  believe. 

Napoleon  [witJi  coarse  familiarity ,  treating  her  as  if  she 
were  a  vivandiere].  Capital!  Capital!  [He  puts  his  hands 
behind  him  on  the  table,  and  lifts  himself  onto  it,  sitting 
ivith  his  arms  akimbo  and  his  legs  wide  apart.]  Come:  I 
am  a  true  Corsican  in  my  love  for  stories.  But  I  could  tell 
them  better  than  you  if  I  set  my  mind  to  it.  Next  time  you 
are  asked  why  a  letter  compromising  a  wife  should  not  be 
sent  to  her  husband,  answer  simply  that  the  husband  would 
not  read  it.  Do  you  suppose,  little  innocent,  that  a  man 
wants  to  be  compelled  by  public  opinion  to  make  a  scene,  to 
fight  a  duel,  to  break  up  his  household,  to  injure  his  career 
by  a  scandal,  when  he  can  avoid  it  all  by  taking  care  not  to 
know? 

Lady  [revolted].  Suppose  that  packet  contained  a  letter 
about  your  own  wife  ? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  325 

Napoleon  [offended,  coining  off  the  table~\.  You  are  im- 
pertinent, madam. 

Lady  [humbly].  I  beg  your  pardon.  Caesar's  wife  is 
above  suspicion. 

Napoleox  [with  a  deliberate  assumption  of  superiority']. 
You  have  committed  an  indiscretion.  I  pardon  you.  In 
future,  do  not  permit  yourself  to  introduce  real  persons  into 
your  romances. 

Lady  [politely  ignoring  a  speech  which  is  to  her  only  a 
breach  of  good  manners,  and  rising  to  move  toward  the 
table].  General:  there  really  is  a  woman's  letter  there. 
[Pointing  to  the  packet].     Give  it  to  me. 

Napoleon  [with  brute  conciseness,  moving  so  as  to  pre- 
vent her  getting  too  near  the  letters].    Why? 

Lady.  She  is  an  old  friend:  we  were  at  school  together. 
She  has  written  to  me  imploring  me  to  prevent  the  letter 
falling  into  your  hands. 

Napoleon.    Why  has  it  been  sent  to  me? 

Lady.    Because  it  compromises  the  director  Barras. 

Napoleon  [frowning,  evidently  startled].  Barras! 
[Haughtily.]  Take  care,  madam.  The  director  Barras  is 
my  attached  personal  friend. 

Lady  [nodding  placidly].  Yes.  You  became  friends 
through  your  wife. 

Napoleon.  Again !  Have  I  not  forbidden  you  to  speak 
of  my  wife?  [She  keeps  looking  curiously  at  him,  taking 
no  account  of  the  rebuke.  More  and  more  irritated,  he  drops 
his  haughty  manner,  of  ivhich  he  is  himself  impatient,  and 
says  suspiciously,  lowering  his  voice.]  Who  is  this  woman 
with  whom  you  sympathize  so  deeply? 

Lady.    Oh,  General!    How  could  I  tell  you  that? 

Napoleon  [ill-humoredly,  beginning  to  walk  about  again 
in  angry  perplexity].  Ay,  ay;  stand  by  one  another.  You 
are  all  the  same,  you  women. 

Lady  [indignantly].  We  are  not  all  the  same,  any  more 
than  you  are.  Do  you  think  that  if  I  loved  another  man, 
I  should  pretend  to  go  on  loving  my  husband,  or  be  afraid 
to  tell  him  or  all  the  world?  But  this  woman  is  not  made 
that  way.  Slie  governs  men  by  cheating  them :  and  [with, 
disdain]  they  like  it,  and  let  her  govern  them.  [She  sits 
dov;n  again,  with  her  back  to  him.] 

Napoleon  [not  attending  to  her].  Barms,  Barrns! 
[Turning  very  threateningly  to  her,  his  face  darkening.] 


326  SELECTED   READINGS 

Take  care,  take  care:  do  you  hear?  You  may  go  too 
far. 

Lady  [innocently  turning  her  face  to  him'].  What's  the 
matter  ? 

Napoleon.  "Wliat  are  you  hinting  at?  Who  is  this 
woman  ? 

Lady  [meeting  his  angry  searching  gaze  with  tranquil 
indifference  as  she  sits  loohing  up  at  him,  with  her  right  arm 
resting  lightly  along  the  bach  of  her  chair,  and  one  hnee 
crossed  over  the  other].  A  vain,  silly,  extravagant  creature, 
with  a  very  able  and  ambitious  husband  who  knows  her 
through  and  through  —  knows  that  she  has  lied  to  him 
about  her  age,  her  income,  her  social  position,  about  every- 
thing that  silly  women  lie  about  —  knows  that  she  is  in- 
capable of  fidelity  to  any  principle  or  any  person:  and  yet 
could  not  help  loving  her  —  could  not  help  his  man's  instinct 
to  make  use  of  her  for  liis  own  advancement  with  Barras. 

Napoleon  [in  a  stealthy,  coldly  furious  whisper].  This 
is  your  revenge,  you  she-cat,  for  having  had  to  give  me  the 
letters. 

Lady.  Nonsense !  or  do  you  mean  that  you  are  that  sort 
of  man? 

Napoleon  [exasperated,  clasps  his  hands  hehijid  him, 
his  fingers  tivUching,  and  says,  as  he  tvall's  irritably  away 
from  her  to  the  fireplace].  This  woman  will  drive  me  out 
of  my  senses.     [To  her.]     Be  gone. 

Lady  [seated  immoiKibly].     Not  without  that  letter. 

Napoleon.  Be  gone,  I  tell  you.  [^Vancing  from  the  fire- 
place to  the  vineyard  and  hack  again  to  the  table.]  You 
shall  have  no  letter.  I  don't  like  you.  You  're  a  detestable 
woman,  and  as  ugly  as  Satan.  I  don't  choose  to  be  pestered 
by  strange  women.  Be  off.  [He  turns  his  hacTc  on  her.  In 
quiet  amusement,  she  leans  her  cheelc  on  her  hand  and  laughs 
at  him.  He  turns  again,  angrily  moching  her.]  Ha!  ha! 
ha !   what  are  you  laughing  at  ? 

Lady.  At  you.  General.  I  have  often  seen  persons  of 
your  sex  getting  into  a  pet  and  behaving  like  children;  but 
I  never  saw  a  really  great  man  do  it  before. 

Napoleon  [hriitally,  flinging  the  words  in  her  face]. 
Pooh :   flattery !  flattery !     Coarse,  impudent  flattery ! 

Lady  [springing  vp  iviih  a  bright  flush  in  her  cheels]. 
Oh,  you  are  too  bad.  Keep  your  letters.  Eead  the  story  of 
3^our  own  dishonor  in  them:    and  much  good  they  may  do 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  327 

you.  Good-bye.  [She  goes  indignantly  toward  the  inner 
door.'] 

jSTapoleon.  My  own  — !  Stop.  Come  back.  Come  back, 
I  order  you.  \_She  proudly  disregards  his  savagely  per- 
emptory tone  and  continues  on  Iter  way  to  the  door.  He 
rushes  at  her;  seizes  her  hy  the  wrist;  and  drags  her  bacJc.~\ 
Now,  what  do  you  mean?  Explain.  Explain,  I  tell  you, 
or —  [Tlireatening  her.  She  looks  at  him  with  unflinching 
defiance.]  Erir!  you  obstinate  devil,  you.  Why  can't  you 
answer  a  civil  question? 

Lady  [deeply  offended  hy  his  violence].  Why  do  you  ask 
me?    You  have  the  explanation. 

Napoleon^.     Where? 

Lady  [pointing  to  the  letters  on  the  table].  There.  You 
have  only  to  read  it.  [He  snatches  the  paclcet  up;  hesitates; 
looks  at  her  suspiciously ;  and  throws  it  down  again.] 

Napoleox.  You  seem  to  have  forgotten  your  solicitude 
for  the  honor  of  your  old  friend. 

Lady.  She  runs  no  risk  now:  she  does  not  quite  under- 
stand her  husband. 

Napoleon.  I  am  to  read  the  letter,  then  ?  [He  stretches 
out  his  hand  as  if  to  take  up  the  packet  again,  with  his  eye 
on  her.] 

Lady.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  very  well  avoid  doing 
so  now.  [He  instantly  ivithdraws  his  hand.]  Oh,  don't  be 
afraid.    You  will  find  many  interesting  things  in  it. 

Napoleon.    For  instance  ? 

Lady.  For  instance,  a  duel  —  with  Barras,  a  domestic 
scene,  a  broken  household,  a  public  scandal,  a  checked  career, 
all  sorts  of  things. 

Napoleon'.  Hm  !  [He  looks  at  her ;  takes  up  the  packet 
and  looks  at  it,  pursing  his  lips  and  balancing  it  in  his 
hands;  looks  at  her  again;  passes  the  packet  into  his  left 
hand  and  puts  it  behind  his  hack,  raising  his  right  to  scratch 
his  head  as  he  turns  and  goes  up  to  the  edge  of  the  vineyard, 
where  he  stands  for  a  moment  looking  out  into  the  vines, 
deep  in  thought.  The  lady  watches  him  in  silence,  some- 
what slightingly.  Suddenly  he  turns,  comes  back  again,  full 
of  force  and  decision.]  I  grant  your  request,  madam.  Your 
courage  and  resolution  deserve  to  succeed.  Take  the  letters 
for  which  you  have  fonght  so  well ;  and  remember  hence- 
forth that  you  found  the  vile,  vulgar  Corsican  adventurer 
as  generous  to  the  vanquished  after  the  battle  as  he  was 


328  SELECTED   READINGS 

resolute  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  before  it.  [He  offers  lier 
the  packet.'] 

Lady  [ivitliout  talcing  it,  looking  hard  at  himl.  What 
are  you  at  now,  I  wonder?  [He  dashes  the  packet  furiously 
to  the  floor.']  Aha !  I  have  spoiled  that  attitude,  I  think, 
[She  makes  him  a  pretty  mocking  curtsey.] 

Napoleon  [snatching  it  up  again].  Will  you  take  the 
letters  and  be  gone?  [Advancing  and  thrusting  them  upon 
her.] 

Lady  [escaping  around  the  table].  No:  I  don't  want 
your  letters. 

Napoleon.  Ten  minutes  ago,  nothing  else  would  satisfy 
you. 

Lady  [keeping  the  table  carefully  between  them.].  Ten 
minutes  ago  you  had  not  insulted  me  past  all  bearing. 

Napoleon.     I  —  [swallowing  his  spleen]  I  apologize. 

Lady  [coolly].  Thanks.  [With  forced  politeness  he 
offers  her  the  packet  across  the  table.  She  retreats  a  step 
out  of  his  reach  and  says.]  But  don't  you  want  to  know 
whether  the  Austrians  are  at  Mantua  or  Peschiera  ? 

Napoleon.  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  could  conquer 
my  enemies  without  the  aid  of  spies,  madam. 

Lady.    And  the  letter !    Don't  you  want  to  read  that  ? 

Napoleon.  You  have  said  that  it  is  not  addressed  to  me. 
I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  reading  other  people's  letters.  [He 
again  offers  the  packet.] 

Lady.  In  that  case  there  can  be  no  objection  to  your 
keeping  it.  All  I  wanted  was  to  prevent  your  reading  it. 
[Cheerfully.]  Good-afternoon,  General.  [She  turns  coolly 
toward  the  inner  door.] 

Napoleon,  [furiously  flinging  the  packet  on  the  couch]. 
Heaven  grant  me  patience !  [He  goes  up  determinedly  and 
places  himself  before  the  door.]  Have  you  any  sense  of 
personal  danger?  Or  are  you  one  of  those  women  who  like 
to  be  beaten  black  and  blue? 

Lady.  Thank  you.  General:  I  have  no  doubt  the  sen- 
sation is  very  voluptuous;  but  I  had  rather  not.  I  simply 
want  to  go  home :  that 's  all.  I  was  wicked  enough  to  steal 
your  despatches;  but  you  have  got  them  back;  because  [deli- 
cately reproducing  his  rhetorical  cadence]  you  are  as  gen- 
erous to  the  vanquished  after  the  battle  as  you  are  resolute 
in  the  face  of  the  enemy  before  it.  [Exit.] 

G.  Bernard  Shaw. 


SCENES  AND   DIALOGUES  329 


NATURE    AND    PHILOSOPHY 

[il/r,  Jerningham,  a  middle-aged  lawyer,  is  seated  at  a  table 
or  desk,  poring  over  law  bools  which  are  spread  out 
before  him.    Enter  Miss  May.] 

MAY.  Mr.  Jerningham  !  Mr.  Jerningham !  Mr.  Jern- 
ingham !   are  you  very  busy  ? 

Mr.  J.     No,  Miss  May,  not  very. 

May.    Because  I  want  your  opinion. 

Mr.  J.  In  one  moment.  \Business.']  Now,  Miss  May, 
I  'm  at  3'our  service. 

May.  It 's  a  very  important  thing  I  want  to  ask  you,  and 
you  must  n't  tell  any  one  I  asked  you,  at  least  I  'd  rather 
you  did  n't. 

Mr.  J.  I  shall  not  speak  of  it,  indeed,  I  shall  probably 
not  remember  it. 

May.  And  you  must  n't  look  at  me,  please,  while  I  'm 
asking  you. 

Mr.  J.  I  don't  think  I  was  looking,  but  if  I  was,  I  beg 
your  pardon. 

May.    Suppose  a  man  —  No,  that 's  not  right. 

Mr.  J.  You  can  take  any  hypothesis  you  please,  but  you 
must  verify  it  aftenvards,  of  course. 

;May.  Oh,  do  let  me  go  on.  Suppose  a  girl  —  Mr.  Jern- 
ingham, I  wish  you  would  n't  nod. 

Mr.  J.    It  was  only  to  show  that  I  followed  you. 

May.  Oh,  of  course  you  follow  me,  as  you  call  it.  Sup- 
pose a  girl  had  two  lovers  —  or,  I  ought  to  say,  suppose  there 
were  two  men  who  might  be  in  love  with  a  girl. 

Mr.  J.  Only  two?  You  see,  any  number  of  men  might 
be  in  love  with  — 

May.     Oh,  we  can  leave  the  rest  out;  they  don't  matter. 

Mr.  J.  Very  well,  if  they  are  irrelevant,  we  will  put 
them  aside. 

May.  Suppose  then  that  one  of  these  men  was,  oh,  aw- 
fully in  love  with  the  girl  and  proposed,  you  know. 

Mr.  J.  A  moment.  Let  mc  take  down  his  proposition. 
Wliat  was  it? 

May.    Why,  proposed  to  her ;  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

^\n.  J.  Dear  me,  how  stupid  of  me.  I  forgot  —  that 
special  use  of  the  word.     Yes. 


330  SELECTED   READINGS 

May.  The  girl  likes  him  pretty  well,  and  her  people 
approve  of  him,  and  all  that,  you  know. 

Mr.  J.     That  simplifies  the  problem. 

May.  But  she  's  not  in  —  in  love  with  him,  you  know. 
She  does  n't  really  care  for  him  —  much.  Do  you  under- 
stand ? 

Mr.  J.    Perfectly.    It  is  a  most  natural  state  of  mind. 

May.  Well,  then,  suppose  that  there  's  another  man  — 
What  are  you  writing  ? 

Mr.  J.    I  only  put  down  (B)  — like  that. 

May.  Oh,  you  really  are  —  But  let  me  go  on.  The 
other  man  is  a  friend  of  the  girl ;  he  's  very  clever,  —  oh, 
fearfully  clever,  and  he  's  rather  handsome.  You  need  not 
put  that  down. 

Mr.  J.    It  is  certainly  not  very  material. 

May.  And  the  girl  is  most  awfully  —  she  admires  him 
tremendously;  she  thinks  him  just  the  greatest  man  that 
ever  lived,  you  know.     And  she  —  she  — 

Mr.  J.     I  'm  following. 

May.  She  'd  think  it  better  than  the  whole  world  if  — 
if  she  could  be  anything  to  him,  you  know. 

Mr.  J.    You  mean  become  his  wife? 

May.    Well,  of  course  I  do  —  at  least,  I  suppose  I  do. 

Mr.  J.    You  speak  rather  vaguely,  you  know. 

May.    Well,  yes,  1  did  mean  become  his  wife. 

Mr.  J.    Yes.    Well? 

May.  He  does  n't  think  much  about  those  things.  He 
likes  her  —  I  think  he  likes  her  — 

Mr.  J.  Well,  does  n't  dislike  her  ?  Shall  we  call  him 
indifferent  ? 

May.  I  don't  know.  Yes,  rather  indifferent.  I  don't 
think  he  thinks  about  it,  you  know.  But  she  —  she 's 
pretty.     You  need  n't  put  that  down. 

Mr.  J.     I  was  not  about  to  do  so. 

May.  She  thinks  life  with  him  would  be  just  heaven; 
and  —  and  she  thinks  she  would  make  him  awfully  happy. 
She  would  —  would  be  so  proud  of  him,  you  see. 

Mr.  J.    I  see.    Yes? 

May.  And  —  I  don't  know  how  to  put  it,  quite  —  she 
thinks  that  if  he  ever  thought  about  it  at  all,  he  might  care 
for  her,  because  he  does  n't  care  for  anybody  else ;  and  she 's 
pretty  — 

Mr.  J.    You  said  that  before. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  331 

May.  Oh,  dear,  I  dare  say  I  did.  And  most  men  care 
for  somebody,  don't  they?  some  girl,  I  mean. 

Mr.  J.     Most  men,  no  doubt. 

May.  "Well,  then,  what  ought  she  to  do?  It's  not  a  real 
thing,  you  know,  Mr.  Jerningham.  It's  in  —  in  a  novel  I 
was  reading. 

Mr.  J.  Dear  me!  and  it's  quite  an  interesting  case! 
Yes,  I  see.  The  question  is,  Will  she  act  most  wisely  in 
accepting  the  offer  of  the  man  who  loves  her  exceedingly, 
but  for  whom  she  entertains  only  a  moderate  affection  — 

May.     Yes,  just  a  liking.     He  's  just  a  friend. 

Mr.  J.  Exactly.  Or  in  marrying  the  other  whom  she 
loves  ex — 

May.  That's  not  it.  How  can  she  marry  him?  He 
has  n't  —  he  has  n't  asked  her,  you  see. 

Mr.  J.  True;  I  forgot.  Let  us  assume,  though,  for  the 
moment,  that  he  has  asked  her.  She  would  then  have  to  con- 
sider wliich  marriage  would  probably  be  productive  of  the 
greater  sum  total  of  — 

May.     Oh,  but  you  need  n't  consider  that. 

Mr.  J.  But  it  seems  the  best  logical  order.  We  can 
afterwards  make  allowance  for  the  element  of  uncertainty 
caused  by  — 

May.  Oh,  no,  I  don't  want  it  like  that.  I  know  perfectly 
well  which  she  would  do  if  he  —  the  other  man,  you  know 
—  asked  her. 

i\lR.  J.    You  apprehend  that  — 

May.  Never  mind  what  I  apprehend  —  Take  it  just  as 
I  told  you. 

Mr.  J.    Very  good :    A  has  asked  her  hand,  B  has  not. 

May.    Yes. 

Mr.  J.  May  I  take  it  that,  but  for  the  disturbing  in- 
fluence of  B,  A  would  be  a  satisfactory  —  er  —  candidate? 

j\L\Y.     Ye-es  —  I  think  so. 

Mr.  J.  She,  therefore,  enjoys  a  certainty  of  considerable 
happiness  if  she  marries  A? 

^Iay.    Ye-es.    Not  perfect,  because  of  —  B,  you  know. 

;Mr.  J.  Quite  so,  quite  so;  but  still  a  fair  amount  of 
happiness.     Is  it  not  so? 

May.    I  don't —    Well,  perhaps. 

Mr.  J.  On  the  other  hand,  if  B  asked  her,  we  are  to 
postulate  a  higher  degree  of  happiness  for  her? 

May.    Yes,  please,  Mr,  Jerningham  —  much  higher. 


332  SELECTED    READINGS 

Mr.  J.    For  both  of  them  ? 

May.    For  her.     Never  mind  him. 

Mr.  J.  Very  well.  That  again  simplifies  the  problem. 
But  his  asking  her  is  a  eontingenc}^  only- 

May.     Yes,  that's  all. 

Mr.  J.  My  dear  young  lady,  It  now  becomes  a  question 
of  degree.     How  probable  or  improbable  is  it? 

May.     I  don't  know.    Not  very  probable  —  unless  — 

Mr.  J.    Well? 

May.    Unless  he  did  happen  to  notice,  you  know. 

Mr.  J.  Ah,  yes.  We  suppose  that,  if  he  thought  of  it,  he 
would  probably  take  the  desired  step ;  that  is,  if  he  might  be 
led  to  do  so.    Could  she  not  —  er  —  indicate  her  preference  ? 

May.  She  might  try  —  No,  she  could  n't  do  much.  You 
see,  he  —  he  does  n't  think  about  such  things. 

Mr.  J.  I  understand  precisely.  And  it  seems  to  me,  Miss 
May,  that  in  that  very  fact  we  find  our  solution. 

May.    Do  we? 

Mr.  J.  I  thinlv  so.  He  has  evidently  no  natural  inclina- 
tion toward  her,  perhaps  not  toward  marriage  at  all. 

May.  You  think  B's  feelings  would  n't  be  at  all  likely 
to  —  to  change  ? 

Mr.  J.  That  depends  on  the  sort  of  man  he  is.  But  if 
he  is  an  able  man,  with  intellectual  interests  which  engross 
him  —  a  man  who  has  chosen  his  path  in  life  —  a  man  to 
whom  woman's  society  is  not  a  necessity  — 

May.     He's  just  like  that. 

Mr.  J.  Then  I  see  not  the  least  reason  for  supposing 
that  his  feelings  will  change. 

May.    And  would  you  advise  her  to  marry  the  other  —  A  ? 

Mr.  J.  Well,  on  the  whole,  I  should.  A  is  a  good  fel- 
low (I  think  we  made  A  a  good  fellow?)  He  is  a  suitable 
match ;  his  love  for  her  is  true  and  genuine  — 

May.    It 's  tremendous  ! 

Mr.  J.  Yes  —  and  —  er  —  extreme.  She  likes  him. 
There  is  every  reason  to  hope  that  her  liking  will  develop 
into  a  sufficiently  deep  and  stable  affection.  She  will  get 
rid  of  her  folly  about  B  and  make  A  a  good  wife.  Yes, 
Miss  May,  if  I  were  the  author  of  your  novel,  I  should  make 
her  marry  A  and  I  should  call  that  a  happy  ending. 

[A  silence  follows;  it  is  hrohen  hy  the  philosopher. 1 

Mr.  J.  Is  that  all  you  wanted  my  opinion  about,  Miss 
May? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  333 

Mat.    Yes,  I  think  so.    I  hope  I  have  n't  bored  you. 

Mr.  J.  I  have  enjoyed  the  discussion  extremely.  I  had 
no  idea  that  novels  raised  points  of  such  psychological  in- 
terest.    I  must  find  time  to  read  one. 

May.  Don't  you  think  that  perhaps  if  B  found  out  after- 
wards, —  Avhen  she  had  married  A,  you  know  —  that  she  had 
cared  for  him  so  very,  very  much,  he  might  be  a  little  sorry? 

Mr.  J.    If  he  were  a  gentleman  he  would  regret  it  deeply. 

May.  I  mean  sorry  on  his  own  account,  that  —  he  had 
thrown  away  all  that,  you  know? 

Mr.  J.  I  think  that  it  is  very  possible  he  would.  I  can 
well  imagine  it. 

May.  He  might  never  find  any  one  to  love  him  like  that 
again. 

Mr.  J.    He  probably  would  not. 

May.    And  —  and  most  people  like  being  loved,  don't  they  ? 

Mr.  J.  To  crave  for  love  is  an  almost  universal  instinct. 
Miss  May. 

May.  Yes,  almost.  You  see  he  '11  get  old  and  —  and 
have  no  one  to  look  after  him. 

Mr.  J.    He  will. 

May.     And  no  home. 

Mr.  J.  Well,  in  a  sense,  none.  But  really  you  frighten 
me.     I  am  a  bachelor  myself,  you  know.  Miss  May. 

May.    Yes. 

Mr.  J.    And  all  your  terrors  are  before  me. 

May.     AVell,  unless  — 

Mr.  J.  Oh,  we  need  n't  have  that  unless.  There  is  no 
unless  about  it. 

Exit  Miss  May 

Mr.  J.  Good  gracious !  [lool-mg  at  watch]  two  o'clock. 
I  shall  be  late  for  lunch.  [Ri^es  with  boohs  and  eye- 
glasses in  hand,  tal-es  a  few  steps,  pauses,  speaks.']  Eather 
an  interesting  story  that  of  Miss  May.  I  wonder  which 
she  '11  marry,  A  or  B.  [Exit.] 


Adapted  by  Anna  Morgan. 


Anthony  Hope. 


YES    AND    NO 


H 


E.     So  good  of  you  to  see  me.     You  've  been  ill,  I 
hear. 

8iiE.     Yes.  [Languidly.] 

He.    But  vou  are  bnttex? 


334  SELECTED   READINGS 

She.     Yes.  [Little  brighter.'] 

He.   Do  you  know  I  've  been  all  but  on  the  sick-list  myself  ? 
She.    Yes.  [Interested  in  a  way.] 

He.     Yes,  I  took  an  awful  cold  coming  out  from  the 

Claytons'  ball.     Wasn't  the  weather  dreadful  that  night? 
She.     Yes.  [Shivering.'] 

He.     And  I  had  such  a  pain  in  my  lungs  — 
She.    Yes?  [Waking  up.] 

He.     And  my  throat  was  so  sore  — 
She.    Yes?  [Showing  concern.] 

He.     And  I  certainly  thought  I  was  in  for  pneumonia 

and  all  that  sort  of  thing.     Cheerful,  was  n't  it  ? 

She.     Yes.  [Half  laughing.] 

He.     Do  you  know  I  think  I  've  got  the  biggest  kind  of 

a  joke  on  Ned  Sterns? 

She.    Yes  ?  [Interested.] 

He.     You  know  how  dreadfully  smashed  he 's  been  on 

Sadie  Snowden? 

She.    Yes  ?     ["  Well,  I  should  say  so,"  kind  of  a  way.] 
He.    Well,  you  know  that  tall  cousin  of  hers  that  comes 

from  Philadelphia  to  visit  them? 

She.    Yes.  [Interested,  and  quickly.] 

He.   Well,  Ned  asked  Sadie  to  go  to  the  opera  with  him  the 

other  night,  and  she  wrote  back  that  she  was  already  engaged. 
She.     Yes?  [Quickly.] 

He.     And  of  course  Ned  went  to  the  opera  and  spied 

about  until  he  saw  them,  and  — 

She.    Yes  ?  [Quickly.] 

He.    And  he  saw  her  with  this  great  tall  fellow  he  did  n't 

know,  and  he  got  perfectly  furious  with  jealousy  — 
She.     Yes.  [Good  joke  idea.] 

He.    And  now  he's  making  no  end  of  a  row,  and  wants 

me  to  demand  his  letters  back.     Should  n't  you  think  he  'd 

do  it  himself? 

She.    Yes !  [Disgusted.] 

He.    And  all  the  time  I  know  it  is  her  cousin,  and  I  won't 

tell  him !    Is  n't  it  an  awfully  good  joke  ? 

She.    Yes.  [Half-heartedly.] 

He.    You  don't  seem  very  enthusiastic.    Don't  you  think 

Ned  deserves  a  lesson  for  being  so  unreasonable? 

She.    Yes.  [Decided.] 

He.    After  all,  —  women  admire  a  man  for  being  jealous. 

They  think  it  shows  he  is  really  in  love. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  335 

She.    Yes  —  [Oh,  I  don't  know!  idea.l 

He.    Don't  you  know  that  it  is  so? 
She.     Yes —  [Undecided.] 

He.     Come  !    you  are  trying  to  tease  me.     Should  n't  you 

want  a  man  to  be  jealous? 

She.     Yes.  [Decided.'] 

He.     [Laughing.]     There,  I  said  you'd  take  Ned  Sterns's 

part.     [Short  pause.]   Now,  don't  you? 

She.     Yes.  [Undecided.] 

He.     Women  are  never  logical.     I  suppose  they  think 

their  intuitions  are  above  logic ! 

She.     Yes.  [Decided.] 

He.     Or  below  it.  [Sotto  voce.] 

She.    Yes !  [Off  elided.] 

He.    Oh,  don't  be  offended ;  you  know  I  always  agree  with 

you,  even  if  I  know  you  are  wrong.     It  is  only  politic  to 

agree  with  a  woman,  I  always  say. 

She.    Yes!  [Indeed!  idea.] 

He.     There  now,  I  've  got  you  all  cross  again.     I  don't 

know  what  I  shall  do  to  appease  you.    You  are  cross,  are  n't 

you  ? 

She.    Yes.  [Half  laughing.] 

He.    But  not  very,  I  think.     [Sigh  of  relief.]     I  can  al- 
ways make  girls  forgive  me  when  they  are  provoked. 
She.    Yes !  [Indeed!  idea.] 

He.    Why,  Lily  Snowden  said  the  other  day  that  I  talked 

so  fast  that  nobody  could  get  in  a  word  edgeways.     Now, 

you  know  better  than  that,  don't  you? 

She.     Yes!  [Why,  of  course,  idea.] 

He.     And  she  was  just  as  cross  as  she  could  be,  because  I 

would  n't  let  her  tell  a  story :   but  I  talked  right  along,  and 

the  first  thing  she  knew,  she  was  laughing  lilce  anything. 

Don't  you  think  she  is  a  genre  sort  of  girl? 

She'.    Yes?  [Doubtful] 

He.     The  sort  of  girl  who  ought  to  be  in  a  stage  setting 

and  be  composed  in  a  picture,  you  know  — 

She.    Yes !  [Laughing.] 

He.     Now  3^ou  are  a  different  sort  of  girl  altogether. 
She.     Yes?  [Really,  you  think  so?  idea.] 

He.    Oh,  yes.    You  know  Millie  Mayle  never  has  anything 

to  say  worth  saying,  and  she  is  always  interrupting  one  to 

say  it.    Now,  if  you  '11  excuse  me  for  saying  it  to  your  face, 

it  is  a  pleasure  to  talk  to  you,  you  always  have  so  much  to 


336  SELECTED    READINGS 

say.  [She  laughs.]  Oh,  you  may  laugh ;  but  I  'd  rather 
talk  to  you  than  any  girl  I  know.  The  girls  are  so  full  of 
nonsense  and  they  keep  saying  so  many  senseless  things  that 
no  sensible  man  can  bear  to  talk  to  them.  Do  you  know, 
1  've  had  a  great  notion  of  getting  a  lot  of  cards  printed  to 
send  around  as  valentines,  and  the  motto  — 

She.    Yes?  [Getting  up  with  interest.'] 

He.  Was  to  be  "  Little  folks  should  be  seen,  not  heard." 
Don't  you  think  that  an  original  idea? 

She.    Yes.  [Disgiisted.] 

He.  Oh !  Now  you  think  I  'm  pitching  into  the  girls 
again,  and  you  don't  like  it;  but  don't  be  cross,  for  you  see 
I  especially  want  you  to  be  good-natured  this  afternoon.  I 
came  for  a  special  reason. 

She.    Yes  ?  [Half  suspecting.] 

He.  I  've  been  trying  for  a  long  time  to  get  up  my  cour- 
age. I  'm  really  awfully  shy,  and  I  've  always  been  shyer  of 
you  than  of  any  one  else. 

She.    Yes?  [Really  f] 

He.  Yes,  I  really  have.  I  've  always  liked  you  best  of  all 
the  girls.  I  think  we  've  known  each  other  long  enough,  so 
we  can  be  perfectly  frank  —  don't  you  ? 

She.     Yes.  [Decided.] 

He.  I  wish  —  that  is  —  do  you  know  —  I  'm  awfully 
fond  of  you? 

She.    Yes.  [Matter  of  fact.]    • 

He.  Why,  of  course  you  must  have  known  it.  Have  n't 
I  always  asked  you  first  for  the  Germans  ?  You  do  dance  so 
awfully  well,  too. 

She.    Yes.  [Of  course  I  Tcnoiu  it,  idea.] 

He.  Of  course  you  know  it,  and  you  must  have  seen 
what  I  meant  by  it. 

She.    Yes.  [Laughing.] 

He.  Oh,  you  think  I  asked  you  because  I  dance  so  well. 
It  was  n't  that,  at  least  that  was  only  part  of  it. 

She.    Yes.  [/  thought  so.] 

He.     Oh,  Miss  —  I  wish  I  were  sure  you  would  answer 
one  question  the  way  I  want  you  to;  but  then,  the  best  way 
to  find  out  whether  you  will  or  not  is  to  ask  it  —  is  n't  it  ? 
She.    Yes.  [Helping  him.] 

He.  I  never  was  any  good  at  making  speeches.  I  al- 
ways talk  on  the  little  scraps,  and  leave  it  for  others  to  put 
in  a  word  now  and  then. 


SCENES  AND   DIALOGUES  337 

She.    Yes.  [Yes  you  do,  idea.] 

He.    It  makes  conversation  all  so  dull  to  have  it  all  one 

way,  don't  you  think  so? 

She.     Yes.  [Decided.] 

He.    But  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  wanted  —  to  —  ask 

—  you  —  if  you  would  n't  marry  me  ? 

She.    No.  [Quietly,  without  any  pause.] 

He.    Do  you  mean  it? 

She.     Yes.  [Naturally.] 

He.    Eeally? 

She.     Yes.  [Decided.] 

He.     Wliy  not?     But  then  I  don't  suppose  I  have  any 

right  to  ask  that.    I  hope  you  're  not  offended  ?    We  can  be 

friends  still  ? 

She.    Yes.  [Oh,  yes.] 

He.  [Quickly.]  I'm  sorry.  You  are  sure  you  are  in  earnest  ? 
She.    Yes.  [Of  course.] 

He.     Then  I  suppose  there  is  no  good  in  urging  you.     I 

won't  cry  over  spilt  milk.     Don't  you  think  it  is  better  to 

take  things  philosophically? 

She.    Yes.  [Rather  piqued.] 

He.     [Rising.]     Well,  that  is  off  my  mind,  at  any  rate. 

I  've  been  meaning  to  ask  you  all  winter.     You  are  sure 

you  're  not  offended  ? 

She.     Yes.  [Half  offended.] 

He.     So  many  girls  are  put  out,  you  know,  when  they 

won't  have  a  fellow. 

She.    Yes  ?  [Quizzical.] 

He.     Yes.     [Looking  at  his  ivatch.]     I  hadn't  any  idea 

it  was  so  late.     Really,  I  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago. 

Good-bye.     Don't  rise.     Good-bye. 

Arlo  Bates. 

PARRIED  * 

HE.    Ah,  Miss  Violet,  I  am  delighted  to  find  you  alone ! 
vShe.     Surely  it  is  unwise  to  delight  in  an  impos- 
sibility. 

He.     An  impossibility? 

She.  Because  no  sooner  do  you  find  me  than  I  cease 
to  be  alone.  Besides  I  am  here  only  for  the  moment;  I 
am  on  my  way  to  attend  a  meeting  of  —  but  that  does  n't 
concern  you ;  it  is  only  a  woman's  club. 

•  By  permission  of  the  author  and  The  Century  Co. 
22 


338  SELECTED   READINGS 

He.  Whatever  the  paradox,  I  can  only  repeat,  I  am  glad 
to  find  you  by  yourself.  I  have  long  been  seeking  an  oppor- 
tunity to  say  to  you  — 

She.    I  know  exactly  what  you  are  going  to  say. 

He.  I  am  afraid  not,  I  can  only  wish  that  you  did.  For 
sometimes  when  I  am  with  you  — 

She.  Now,  don't  wander  from  the  subject.  You  are 
afraid  I  shall  guess  what  your  errand  is,  and  wish  to  fore- 
stall me.  I  delight  in  guessing,  and  I  insist  upon  a  trial 
of  my  wits. 

He.    But  this  is  trifling.    I  — 

She.  Not  to  me.  I  assure  you,  I  am  really  interested. 
I  have  always  believed  I  should  have  made  an  excellent 
detective. 

He.  Miss  Violet,  do  you  think  ill  of  me  if  I  insist  for 
a  moment  upon  being  serious  ? 

She.  Am  I  then  so  frivolous?  Do  you  not  believe  I  am 
ever  serious?  Wait!  I  know  what  you  wish  to  say,  and  I 
have  my  defence  ready.    I  never  said  it. 

He.     Said  what? 

She.  That  there  was  no  modern  literature  worth  the 
reading.  I  would  n't  make  so  sweeping  a  statement.  I 
said  only  that  I  preferred  to  read  the  old  books  first.  I 
would  n't  be  afraid  to  acknowledge  the  preference,  even  to 
you,  though  I  know  you  are  a  champion  of  modem  schools 
of  fiction.    You  believe  in  realism,  do  you  not? 

He.  I  care  nothing  about  the  question,  one  way  or  the 
other,  just  now.  It  was  not  what  I  had  in  mind  at  all,  I 
wished  to  enter  on  a  more  personal  subject.    In  short  — 

She.  Wait  just  a  moment.  You  're  not  fair.  Don't  toll 
me  yet.  I  've  had  only  one  guess,  and  the  tradition  of  the 
ages  allows  three.  Not  literature,  you  say?  Something 
more  personal  ?    Let  me  see.    Ah !   now  I  can  do  better. 

He.    Excuse  me ;  I  may  have  but  a  moment  to  see  you. 

She,    Why?    Are  you  going  aAvay? 

He.    Yes,  and  before  I  go  — 

She.  When  do  you  leave  us?  I  am  surprised.  I  sup- 
posed you  meant  to  stay  another  week  at  least. 

He.   (Desperately.)   I  could  stay  on  here  with  you  forever. 

She.  Then  somebody  must  have  offended  you.  I  believe 
it  was  Miss  Black.  She  is  so  sarcastic  and  clever.  But  you 
should  n't  mind  what  slie  says.  She  's  really  a  good-hearted 
girl.    Why,  do  you  know,  she  — 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  339 

He.    I  care  nothing  for  Miss  Black ;  nothing  whatever. 

She.  There  you  are  unjust.  Let  me  tell  you  one  instance 
of  her  kindness  toward  a  poor  helpless  cripple.  It  was  the 
most  touching  thing  — 

He.  Pardon  me;  please  don't.  Another  time,  if  you 
like;  not  now.  Now  1  must  say  a  few  words  to  you  about 
myself. 

She.  It  won't  take  a  minute  to  tell  you.  Still,  if  you  in- 
sist upon  being  unjust  to  that  young  girl,  why,  all  I  can  say 
is  that  I  think  you  are  very  inconsiderate,  to  say  the  least. 
She  is  my  best  friend. 

He.  i  know  —  I  know  —  I  did  n't  come  here  to  talk 
about  Miss  Black,  and  as  my  time  is  so  short  — 

She.  True !  I  forgot  for  the  moment  that  you  are  going 
so  soon.    You  did  n't  tell  me  just  when,  did  you  ? 

He.  No.  In  fact  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  much  your 
presence  here  had  been  to  me  —  how  dearly  I  shall  prize  — 

She.  I  beg  you  won't  mention  it.  I  have,  of  course, 
meant  to  be  kind  and  courteous  to  my  uncle's  guests. 

He.     Guests? 

She.  Yes,  to  all.  Tell  me,  have  I  failed  in  my  purpose  ? 
Have  you  heard  me  criticised  ?  I  would  n't  ask,  you  know, 
for  any  idle  reason.  But,  seriously,  I  am  not  always  as  con- 
siderate to  others  as  — 

He.  Considerate?  How  can  I  tell  you  —  how  express 
to  you  the  feelings  of  happiness  — 

She.  Ah!  that's  really  very  gratifying  —  very.  My 
uncle  thinks  me  flighty,  and  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  as, 
in  a  sense,  the  hostess.  I  am  very  much  pleased  by  what 
you  say ;  but  I  shall  not  take  your  words  of  compliment  too 
seriouslv. 

He.  You  cannot  take  them  too  seriously.  But  that  is 
not  exactly  my  meaning.  I  spoke,  not  for  others,  but  for 
myself. 

She.  I  was,  I  see,  too  hasty.  I  hoped  you  spoke  for  all, 
or  at  least  from  a  knowledge  of  the  sentiments  of  the  others. 
Never  mind,  I  am  glad  to  have  made  one  of  my  uncle's 
friends  more  welcome  —  no,  I  mean  more  contented.  That 
is  not  the  word,  either.     What  is  the  right  word,  here? 

He  (Ignoring  lier  question.)  Before  I  go,  I  wish  to  ask 
you  whether  — 

She.  I  believe  a'ou  cannot  think  of  the  word,  either. 
Now,  be  frank.     How  would  you  express  the  idea? 


340  SELECTED   READINGS 

He.  I  wish  to  ask  you  whether  I  have  been  misled  by 
your  kindness;   whether  I  am  wrong  in  believing  — 

She.  Excuse  me;  I  do  so  dislike  to  give  advice.  Can't 
you  ask  some  older  woman?    I  know  so  little  of  the  world! 

He.    You  do  not  let  me  finish. 

She.  I  am  not  fond  of  confidences.  One  so  soon  regrets 
them,  and  then  —  alas  for  the  poor  confidante !  Please  let  us 
not  be  serious.  I  have  so  much  on  my  mind  —  questions  of 
housekeeping,  of  servants,  so  many  petty  details. 

He.    It  is  hopeless,  I  see. 

She.  Entirely  so,  believe  me.  You  are  exceedingly  kind 
to  of!er  me  your  sympathy,  but  nothing  can  be  done.  It  is 
hopeless,  indeed.  All  butlers  seem  to  have  the  same  faults ; 
and  what  they  lack,  the  cooks  possess.  We  thought  we  had 
a  treasure  this  last  month;  and  this  morning  she  came  to 
complain  that  our  dance  music  kept  her  from  sleeping! 

He.    You  are  trifling  with  me. 

She.  No  —  it  is  a  fact.  That  woman  actually  had  the 
efi^rontery  to  complain  — 

He.    For  the  last  time  —  will  you  hear  me  ? 

She.  Certainly.  (Stiffly.)  I  did  not  know  you  had  an 
oration  to  deliver,    I  am  all  attention.    Proceed,  sir. 

He.    You  are  offended. 

She.     Oh,  not  at  all ! 

He.     Then  please  do  not  be  so  —  cold. 

She.  What  am  I  to  do?  When  I  am  silent  you  say  I  am 
cold;  when  I  talk,  I  am  trifling.  If  you  will  graciously 
indicate  exactly  what  demeanor  you  prefer,  I  will  do  my 
best  to  enact  the  part. 

He.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  act.  (Pathctic- 
olhj.)  I  believe  you  know  just  what  I  mean  to  tell  you,  and 
somehow  you  stop  me  whenever  — 

She.  Don't  let  us  go  back  to  that  point  again.  I  had 
almost  forgotten  that  I  was  to  guess.  Let  me  see,  it  was  n't 
literature,  and  it  was  n't  Miss  Black ;   it  must  be  — 

He.    It  was  — 

She.  (Hastily.)  Don't  tell  me,  I  know  I  could  guess  if 
you  gave  me  the  time —  (Suddenly  interrupting.)  Hush! 
there  comes  Harry  Douglas.    Another  time  will  do.  _ 

He.  (In  despair.)  I  must  go,  then.  I  will  vrrite  you. 
Good-bye. 

She.    (Rising  and  ignoring  his  hand.)    Good-bye. 

Exit  He 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  341 

Enter  Harry  Douglas 

Harry.  Ah,  my  dear!  What  was  the  trouble  with  my 
lord,  the  recently  departed?  He  looked  like  the  ghost  of 
Hamlet's  father  as  he  left. 

She.  Oh,  Harry !  He  was  trying  to  propose  to  me,  poor 
boy,  and  I  could  n't  tell  liim  of  our  engagement  until  it 
is  out,  you  know,  and  I  didn't  know  how  to  refuse  him. 

Harry.    And  how  did  you? 

She.     Oh,  he  didn't  say  anything  to  me. 

Harry.    Why  not? 

She.    He  could  n't  seem  to  find  a  chance. 

Harry.    I  had  no  difficulty. 

She.    That's  different. 

Tudor  Jenks. 

AT    THE    DOOR* 

A  Hostess  and  Guest  are  Parting  at  the  Door-step 

HOSTESS.  Well,  dear,  if  you  must  go,  good-bye. 
Guest.  Yes,  dear,  I  really  must ;  I  wish  I  might  stay 
longer,  but  the  baby  must  have  some  new  shoes  and  I 
promised  to  match  a  sample  for  one  of  the  maids.  —  Really, 
I  'm  so  driven  all  day  that  I  scarcely  know  which  way  to 
turn.  —  You  know  what  it  is  to  keep  house ;  I  never  know 
how  I  am  going  to  finish  the  thousand  and  one  things  I 
have  to  do. 

Hostess.  That  is  the  same  way  with  me,  I  can  assure 
you.  I  'm  so  driven  all  day,  that  I  never  call  a  single 
moment  my  own.  Yet  I  economize  every  instant  of  the 
day,  rushing  from  one  thing  to  another,  till  sometimes  I 
wonder  if  I  am  in  possession  of  my  senses. 

Guest.  There,  don't  say  a  word,  —  I  know  just  how  it 
is.  There  are  some  M'^oraen  who  fritter  away  their  time  and 
then  they  wonder  why  thev  don't  accomplish  more ;  but 
you  and  I,  dear  —  Now,  really,  I  must  n't  gossip  any  longer; 
once  more,  good-bye. 

Hostess.  Good-bye,  come  and  see  me  soon  again,  dear. 
I  've  enjoyed  your  call  so  much. 

Guest.  I  think  I  am  very  forgiving,  for  you  've  owed  me 
a  call  — 

Hostess.     One  moment,  Lizzie,  dear.     You  surely  are 

*  Bu  permission  oi  the  author  and  The  Century  Co. 


342  SELECTED   READINGS 

mistaken  —  I  'm  always  so  punctilious  about  calling.  Let 
me  see,  I  was  at  your  home  just  after  your  cook  left,  and 
by  the  way,  you  never  told  me  why  she  left.  Why  was  it? 
She  always  seemed  so  neat  and  respectful  and  was  so  tidy 
about  the  kitchen. 

Guest.  You  mean  Olga.  Yes,  there  were  many  nice 
things  about  Olga,  but  she  was  so  terribly  wasteful  that  I 
could  n't  put  up  with  her  any  longer.  Of  course,  after 
having  a  cook  like  Julia  Mackenzie,  I  found  Olga  a  terrible 
trial  to  my  patience.  I  did  my  best  to  keep  her  on  account 
of  her  dear  old  mother,  but  I  could  not  stand  her  another 
minute.  It  was  simply  too  much  for  human  patience  to 
bear.  But,  I  must  not  keep  you  with  my  foolish  complaints. 
Once  more,  good-bye. 

Hostess.    Oh,  did  you  know  that  I  had  a  new  cook,  too  ? 

Guest.  Why,  no,  you  never  told  me.  Then  I  suppose 
Marie  is  gone.  Now  that  is  what  I  call  a  real  trial.  When 
did  she  go? 

Hostess.  A  week  ago,  and  you  would  never  believe  the 
state  in  which  she  left  the  kitchen;  the  pans  looked  as  if 
they  had  never  come  within  speaking  distance  of  the  scour- 
ing sand  —  I  just  dread  the  hour  in  which  a  cook  leaves ; 
it 's  always  worse  than  when  they  come.  Still,  I  must  not 
unload  my  troubles  on  you,  especially  when  you  have  some 
of  your  own.  I  do  think  that  we  women  are  the  drudges  of 
the  world.  If  men  had  one-half  the  burdens  we  women 
have  to  bear  without  complaining,  they  —  well,  I  don't 
know  what  they  would  n't  do.  We  poor  women  have  to 
suffer  in  silence,  no  matter  what  comes.  I  do  hope  that  if 
we  have  to  live  over  again,  I  won't  have  to  be  a  woman  — 
so  there.    What  a  beautiful  day  it  is  after  the  rain ! 

Guest.  Beautiful.  Is  n't  it  strange  how  invariably  it 
rains  on  wash-day?  It  seems  to  me  that  we  never  have  a 
sunny  Monday,  and  it 's  sure  to  be  more  or  less  cloudy  on 
Tuesday  and  Wednesday. 

Hostess.  Well,  I  'm  sure  it  alwaj's  pours  on  Sunday 
when  one  has  on  their  best  clothes.  And  the  children  in- 
sist that  it's  always  drizzling  on  Saturday,  so  it's  to  be 
hoped  that  Thursdays  and  Fridays  are  sometimes  clear. 

Guest.  Here  I  'm  keeping  you  on  the  door-step,  as  if  we 
were  waiting  to  see  a  circus  go  by  —  I  have  n't  seen  a  circus 
in  years;  have  you? 

Hostess.    Not  I,  I  have  no  need  of  circuses.    The  children 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  343 

give  me  all  the  circus  I  need  every  day.  How  you  manage 
with  your  five,  I  'm  sure  I  can't  see.  What  do  you  ever  do 
with  them  all?  And  when  do  you  find  time  for  that  lovely 
embroidery  of  yours? 

Guest.  Do  you  really  like  it  ?  I  'm  so  glad,  for  I  feel 
that  if  I  could  not  emlaroider,  I  should  die.  Badly  as  I 
do  it,  it 's  my  greatest  comfort  —  after  John  and  the  chil- 
dren, of  course.  Why  don't  you  learn?  Miss  Mascovite  is 
such  a  lovely  teacher,  and  her  prices  are  absurdly  low  — ■ 
only  six  dollars  a  lesson.  Why,  I  have  learned  six  new 
stitches  for  only  eighteen  dollars  —  't  was  just  like  pick- 
ing them  up  in  the  sti'eet. 

Hostess.  I  should  like  to,  of  course ;  but  Will  is  so  fussy 
over  small  expenses.  He  'd  think  that  eighteen  dollars  spent 
for  embroider}'  lessons  was  a  sinful  waste,  and  yet  he'll 
spend  any  amount  for  cigars  in  a  single  evening  —  I  've 
known  him  to  do  it  without  winlcing. 

Guest.  I  know  just  what  you  mean.  John  is  the  same 
way.  He  thinks  money  spent  on  a  new  hat  quite  thrown 
away,  and  yet  he  will  lay  out  as  much  as  fifteen  dollars  on 
a  new  suit  and  never  give  it  a  thought.  Are  n't  men  the 
most  unreasonable  creatures  in  nature  —  except  Avomen 
perhaps.  But  at  least  we  know  our  faults,  and  confess  them 
to  one  another,  and  that  is  more  than  men  do,  goodness 
knows.  I  must  hurry  off.  What  time  is  it?  My  watch 
has  stopped. 

Hostess.  I  don't  know  —  my  watch  is  n't  going  —  has  n't 
run  for  several  weeks.  I  'm  afraid  that  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  it  —  never  did  go  any  way.  It's  early 
yet!  Come  in  and  have  some  tea  before  you  go.  Your 
errands  can  wait  just  as  well  as  not. 

Guest.  You  really  won't  think  me  silly,  and  won't  mind? 
Your  tea  is  so  good ;  and  besides,  my  errands  can  wait  just 
as  well  as  not.  I  hate  to  feel  hurried  and  driven.  And 
you  're  quite  sure  you  won't  mind  ? 

Hostess.  Only  if  you  don't  come ;  come,  dear,  and  have  a 
good  talk. 

Tudor  Jenks. 


344  SELECTED   READINGS 

AT    THE    FERRY 

Scene  :  A  New  York  Ferry  Landing 

[Person-e:   Papa  Blossom,  Mamma  Blossom,  and  Master  Freddie 
Blossom.] 

FRED.    Where  are  all  the  people  going  to,  mamma? 
Mes.  B.    To  the  country. 

Fred.    What  country?    Africa? 

Mrs.  B.    No,  not  a  foreign  country,  this  country. 

Fred.    They  are  in  this  country  now,  ain't  they? 

Mrs,  B.    Yes,  of  course  they  are. 

Fred.    Well,  how  can  they  go  to  this  country  when  they  're 
already  in  it? 

Mrs.  B.    We  are  in  the  city  now,  Freddie,  and  the  people 
want  to  go  into  the  country. 

Fred.    Ain't  this  city  a  country? 

Mrs.  B.    Of  course  it  is  a  country,  but  the  people  want  to 
go  into  the  country.    Don't  you  understand? 

Fred.    What  country? 

Mrs.  B.    Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  hold  your  tongue! 

Mr.  B.    That 's  no  way  to  talk  to  a  child ;  you  must  not 
forget  you  were  a  child  once. 

Mrs.  B.    Well,  suppose  you  take  him  and  be  his  encyclo- 
pedia for  the  balance  of  the  day. 

Mr.  B.     Willingly.     Come,  Freddie,  give  me  your  hand, 
your  papa  will  answer  all  your  questions. 

Fred.    [A  moment  later.]    What 's  that  man  running  for, 
papa? 

Mr.  B.    He  wants  to  catch  the  ferry. 

Fred.    If  he  catches  it  now,  won't  he  ever  catch  it  again  ? 

Mr.  B.    "\\Tiy,  I  presume  he  will. 

Fred.     I  would  rather  catch  the  measles,  would  n't  you, 
papa? 

Mr.  B.    Wliy? 

Fred.    'Cause  you  only  catch  them  once. 

Mr.  B.    Ha,  ha,  ha !   But  the  ferry  is  not  a  disease,  it 's  a 
boat. 

Fred.    Why  don't  they  call  it  a  boat  then? 

Mr.  B.    They  do;  they  call  it  a  ferry  boat. 

Fred.    What  does  the  man  want  to  catch  the  boat  for? 

Mr.  B.    He  wants  to  take  it  to  Jersey. 

Fred.    What  does  he  want  to  take  it  to  Jersey  for? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  345 

Mr.  B,    Because  he  wants  to  go  to  Jersey. 

Fred.    Will  he  take  it  on  his  shoulders? 

Me.  B.    Take  what  on  his  shoulders  ? 

Fred.    The  boat. 

Mr.  B.  You  little  —  [remembering  himself.']  Freddie, 
when  I  say  that  he  will  take  the  boat  to  Jersey  I  mean  the 
boat  will  take  him  to  Jersey. 

Fred.  But  why  does  the  man  run  so  fast  to  take  the  boat 
to  Jersey? 

Me.  B.    He  is  afraid  he  will  miss  the  boat. 

Fred.    And  if  he  misses  it,  could  n't  he  ever  go  to  Jersey  ? 

Mr.  B.    Of  course  he  could ;  he  could  take  the  next  boat. 

Fred.  Would  he  have  to  wait  seven  or  eleven  hours  for 
another  boat? 

Mr.  B.    No,  he  would  have  to  wait  only  a  few  minutes. 

Fred.    Then  what  does  he  run  so  fast  for? 

Mr.  B.  Lord  only  knows.  I  suppose  it  is  because  he  is 
an  American. 

Fred.    What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it,  papa  ? 

Mr.  B.  Hanged  if  I  know !  See,  Freddie,  that  man  with 
the  basket.    I  presume  he  is  going  on  a  picnic. 

Fred.    What's  a  picnic,  papa,  a  boat? 

Mr.  B.  No  ;  a  picnic,  my  boy,  is  a  —  well,  people  take 
their  lunches  in  baskets  and  eat  them  under  the  trees  in  the 
country. 

Fred.    The  country  mamma  would  n't  tell  me  about? 

Mr.  B.    Yes,  the  same  country. 

Fred.    What  do  they  eat  the  baskets  for? 

Me.  B.  They  don't  eat  the  baskets,  —  they  eat  the  lunches 
in  the  baskets. 

Fred.  Have  n't  these  people  any  homes  to  eat  their 
lunches  in? 

Mr.  B.    Of  course  they  have. 

Fred.    Why  do  they  want  to  eat  them  under  trees  for,  then  ? 

Mr.  B.    Just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing. 

Fred.    What  fun  is  there  eating  under  trees? 

Mr.  B.    Hanged  if  I  know. 

Fred.    Did  you  ever  eat  your  lunch  under  trees? 

Mr.  B.    Yes. 

Fred.    Did  you  have  any  fun? 

Mr.  B.     I  don't  know. 

Fred.  Well,  you  don't  know  much,  anyhow,  do  you, 
papa?  Anonymous. 


346  SELECTED   READINGS 


COME    HERE 

[It  is  an  excellent  practice  to  take  a  simple  sentence,  —  for  instance, 
"Shut  the  door,"  and  see  what  a  variety  in  tone  and  inflection  may  be 
given  it.  Several  hundred  ways  may  be  easily  devised.  Illustrative 
of  this  is  an  excerpt  from  a  scene  translated  from  the  German  and 
given  by  the  late  Madame  Janauschek.] 

Scene  :  an  Office.     [Call-boy  is  arranging  letters  and  papers 
on  table.    Enter  the  manager.^ 

MAN".    Good  morning,  Bob.    Tell  the  bill-poster  when  he 
comes  to  display  the  new  posters  in  the  green-room 
for  me  to  look  at,  and  let  me  know  when  they  are  ready. 
Boy.    a  lady  is  waiting  to  see  you,  sir. 
Man.    Ask  her  to  come  in.  [Exit  loy.'\ 

Enter  an  Actress 

Man.  [Aside.]  Good  appearance.  Madam,  your  busi- 
ness? 

Act.  I  'm  informed  the  place  of  leading  lady  in  your 
company  is  vacant,  and  trusting  that  my  talents  may  en- 
able me  to  fill  it  worthily,  I  beg  to  offer  you  my  services. 

Man.  Have  you  a  mind  to  stand  a  special  trial?  The 
test  I  propose  is  very  difficult.  Mind,  I  do  not  want  to  see 
yourself:  simply  the  character  that  is  to  be  represented. 

Act.    Will  you  leave  the  choice  to  me? 

Man.     Oh,  no! 

Act.  Then  it  may  indeed  become  a  harder  task  than  I 
thought;  your  selection  may  not  be  in  my  repertoire. 

Man.  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  I  only  require  two  words :  "  Come 
here." 

Act.    Come  here? 

Man.  Yes,  and  with  the  words,  the  meaning,  emphasis, 
and  expressions  that  situation,  character,  and  the  surround- 
ings would  command.  The  part  is  simple  and  easily 
studied ;   do  you  think  you  can  remember  it  ? 

Act.    Let  me  see,  c-o-m-e  h-e-r-e,  is  that  right? 

Man.     That's  right. 

Act.     [Removing  her  hat  and  coat.]     Now,  I  'm  ready. 

Man.  First,  represent  a  queen,  who  deigns  to  call  a 
maid-of-honor. 

Act.    Come  here ! 

Man.  Now,  she  commands  a  courtier,  not  in  favor,  to 
the  foot  of  her  throne. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  347 

Act.    Come  here. 

Max.  Next,  she  calls  a  hero  to  reward  his  deeds  in  the 
battlefield,  and  to  receive  the  laurel  from  her  hands. 

Act.     Come  here. 

Man.  Now  represent  a  princess  at  the  deathbed  of  her 
father,  whose  throne  she  will  inherit.  She  is  ambitious,  and 
yet  loves  her  father.  With  these  complex  emotions  she  calls 
on  the  physician,  who  can  bring  relief. 

Act.    Come  here ! 

Man.  Before  a  mother  stand  a  daughter  and  her  lover, 
who  pray  for  her  consent.  The  lover  is  poor;  the  mother 
battles  with  her  pride.  It  is  a  great  struggle  for  her.  At 
last  she  cries  — 

Act.     Come  here ! 

Man.  a  mother  calls  her  little  daughter,  who  has  done 
something  to  vex  her. 

Act.     Come  here ! 

Man.     Now  it  is  her  stepchild. 

Act.  Come  here. 

Man.  a  carriage  is  dashing  by;  a  child  is  in  the  street. 
With  a  heart  filled  with  terror  the  mother  cries  — 

Act.    Come  here ! 

Man.  In  tears  and  sorrow  a  wife  has  bid  adieu  to  her 
departing  husband,  who  has  gone  to  defend  his  country  on 
the  battlefield.  She  seeks  consolation  in  her  children,  and 
calls  — 

Act.     Come  here. 

Man.  The  husband  has  returned ;  the  wife  observes  him, 
and  full  of  joy  calls  her  children  — 

Act.     Come  here! 

Man.    Observing  his  servant,  she  calls  him  also  — 

Act.     Come  here ! 

Man.  Now  show  me  how  in  despair  a  widow  who  has  lost 
all  she  possessed,  through  fire,  confronts  the  creditors  who 
clamor  for  their  dues,  and  whose  criielty  has  killed  her  hus- 
band. She  points  to  the  remains  of  her  dead  husband,  and 
calls  on  them  to  look  at  their  work. 

Act.    Come  here. 

Man.  In  a  wooded  glade  a  country  maiden  spies  an 
artist,  whose  eyes  rest  now  on  her,  then  on  a  sketch-book  he 
works  upon.  She  creeps  cautiously  behind  him  and  sees 
herself.     In  flelight  and  triumph  she  calls  her  neighbor  — 

Act.     Come  here ! 


348  SELECTED    READINGS 

Man.  Now  show  me  how  a  country  miss  would  call  a 
dog  that  has  stolen  her  luncheon;  she  would  like  to  have  it 
back,  but  fears  he  might  bite  her. 

Act.    Come  here. 

Man,  The  dog  approaches ;  she  is  afraid  of  him ;  she  calls 
to  a  passerby  for  help  — 

Act.     Come  here ! 

Man.  a  husband  threatens  to  beat  his  wife ;  feeling  out- 
raged she  raises  a  broom  on  high  and  exclaims  — 

Act.     Come  here ! 

Man.  a  jealous  wife  accuses  her  husband  of  being  in 
love,  which  he  denies.  In  his  pocket  she  discovers  a  letter. 
She  again  upbraids  him;  he  still  denies;  then  opening  the 
letter,  she,  full  of  hate  and  rage,  calls  out  — 

Act.     Come  here! 

Man.  Now  represent  a  maiden  who  looks  with  childish 
innocence  upon  her  lover,  whom  she  chid  because  he  stole  a 
kiss.     Seeing  she  has  pained  him,  she  calls  — 

Act.     Come  here. 

Man.    He  does  not  return,  and  she  calls  again  — 

Act.    Come  here ! 

Man.  He  will  not  return  until  she  offers  her  cheek  to 
him  for  a  kiss. 

Act.    Come  here. 

Man.  Now  for  the  last  picture.  A  man  was  betrothed 
in  childhood  to  a  lovely  girl.  Reverses  of  fortune  separated 
their  families.  After  long  years  they  meet.  He  longs  to 
renew  the  old  ties;  he  offers  her  his  hand,  his  heart,  all 
that  he  possesses,  and  now  awaits  anxiously  the  words  that 
may  tell  him  his  love  is  returned  — 

Act.     Come  here. 


SECRETS    OF   THE    HEART 

Scene  :  A  chalet  covered  with  honeysucTcle 


T 


Ninette. 

I  HIS  way. 

Ninon.     No,  this  way. 

{They  enter  the  chalet. 1 
Ninette.    This  way,  then. 

You  are  as  changing,  child,  as  men. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES 


349 


NiNOX.        But  are  tliev  ?    Is  it  true,  I  mean  ? 

Who  said  it? 
Ninette.     Sister  Seraphine. 

She  was  so  pious  and  so  good. 

With  such  sad  eyes  beneath  her  hood. 

And  such  poor  little  feet  —  all  bare  ! 

Her  name  was  Eugenie  LaFere. 

She  used  to  tell  us,  moonlight  nights. 

When  I  was  at  the  Carmelites. 
Ninon.        Ah !  then  it  must  be  right.    And  yet. 

Suppose  for  once  —  suppose,  Ninette  ■ — 
Ninette.    But  what? 
Ninon.        Suppose  it  were  not  so  ? 

Suppose  there  icere  true  men,  you  know ! 
Ninette.    And  then? 
Ninon.        Why,  —  if  that  could  occur, 

What  kind  of  man  should  you  prefer? 
Ninette.    "\Miat  looks,  you  mean? 
Ninon.  Looks,  voice,  and  all. 

Ninette.    Well,  as  to  that,  he  must  be  tall. 

Or  say,  not  tall  —  of  middle  size ; 

And  next,  he  must  have  laughing  eyes. 

And  a  hook  nose,  with,  underneath, 

0  !   such  a  row  of  sparkling  teeth ! 

Ninon.        [Touching  her  cheek  suspiciously. 1     Has  he  a 

scar  on  this  side  ? 
Ninette.  Hush ! 

Some  one  is  coming.    No ;  a  thrush ; 

1  see  it  swinging  there. 
Ninon.  Go  on. 
Ninette.     Then  he  must  fence  (Ah,  look !  't  is  gone !), 

And  dance  like  Monseigneur,  and  sing 
"  Love  Was  a  Shepherd  "  —  everything 
That  men  do.    Tell  me  yours,  Ninon. 
Ninon.        Shall  I?    Then  mine  has  black,  black  hair, 
I  meaD,  he  should  liavc;   then  an  air 
Half  sad,  half  noble;  features  thin; 
A  little  royale  on  his  chin ; 
And  such  a  pale  high  brow!    And  then 
He  is  a  prince  of  gentlemen ! 
He,  too,  can  ride,  and  fence,  and  write 
Sonnets  and  madrigals,  yet  fight 
No  worse  for  that  — 


350 


SELECTED   READINGS 


Ninette. 

I  know  your  man. 

Ninon. 

And  I  know  yours.    But  you  '11  not  tell. 

Swear  it. 

Ninette. 

I  swear  upon  this  fan  — 

Ninon. 

My  grandmother's ! 
And  I  —  I  swear 

On  this  old  turquoise  reliquaire  — 

My  great-great-grandmother's !    {After  a  pause.' 

Ninette !   I  feel  so  sad. 

Ninette. 

I  too.    But  why? 

Ninon. 

Alas,  I  know  not ! 

Ninette. 

With  a  sigh.]     Nor  do  I. 

Austin  Dobson. 

Nellie. 


TU    QUOQUE 

IF  I  were  you,  when  ladies  at  the  play,  sir. 
Beckon  and  nod  a  melodrama  through, 
I  would  not  turn  abstractedly  away,  sir. 
If  I  were  you ! 


Frank.     If  I  were  you,  when  persons  I  affected 

Wait  for  three  hours  to  take  me  down  to  Kew, 
I  would,  at  least,  pretend  I  recollected. 
If  I  were  you. 

Nellie.    If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  are  so  lavish, 

Sir,  as  to  keep  me  every  waltz  but  two, 
I  would  not  dance  with  odious  Miss  McTavish, 
If  I  were  you  ! 

Frank.     If  I  were  you,  who  vow  you  cannot  suffer 

\\Tiiff  of  the  best  —  the  mildest  "  honey  dew," 
I  would  not  dance  with  smoke-consuming  Puffer, 
If  I  were  you  ! 

Nellie.    If  I  were  you,  I  would  not,  sir,  be  bitter, 

Even  to  write  the  "  C}mical  Eeview  "  — 


Frank.     No,  I  should  doubtless  find  flirtation  fitter. 
If  I  were  you  ! 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES 


351 


Nellie.    Eeally!    You  would?    Why,  Frank,  you're  quite 
delightful  — 
Hot  as  Othello,  and  as  black  of  hue ; 
Borrow  my  fan.    I  would  not  look  so  frightful. 
If  I  were  you ! 

Frank.     "  It  is  the  cause."    I  mean,  your  chaperon  is 

Bringing  some  well-curled  juvenile.    Adieu ! 
I  shall  retire.    I  'd  spare  that  poor  Adonis, 
If  I  were  you. 

Nellie.    Go,  if  you  will.    At  once !    And  by  express,  sir ! 
Where  shall  it  be  ?   to  China  —  or  Peru  ? 
Go.    I  should  leave  inquirers  my  address,  sir. 
If  I  were  you ! 

Frank.     No  —  I  remain.    To  stay  and  fight  a  duel 

Seems,  on  the  whole,  the  proper  thing  to  do  — 
Ah  I  you  are  strong  —  I  would  not  then  be  cruel. 
If  I  were  you. 

Nellie.    One  does  not  like  one's  feelings  to  be  doubted  — 
Frank.  One  does  not  like  one's  friends  to  miscon- 

strue — 
Nellie.    If  I  confess  that  I  a  wee  bit  pouted  ? 
Frank.  I  should  admit  that  I  was  piqued  too. 

(Waltz  music  —  Invitation  to  the  Dance.) 

Nellie.    Ask  me  to  dance !    I  'd  say  no  more  about  it, 

If  I  were  you !  [Waltz  —  Exeunt.'] 

Austin  Dobson. 


SCENE   FROM   "  PAOLA  AND   FRANCESCA  "  * 

From  Act  IV 

\_A  chamber  in  the  palace;  late  evening  of  the  second  day 
after  Giovanni's  departure.  Giovanni  discovered,  stained 
as  from  hard  riding.] 


Gio. 


T 


HE  Lady  Lucrezia  —  is  she  in  the  house? 
Car.     She  is,  sir. 

Tell  her  that  I  am  returned, 


Gio. 

•  B\i  pcrwisaion  of  the  author  and  his  publishers,  Messrs.  John  Lane  Company, 
The  Bodleu  Head. 


352  SELECTED   READINGS 


And  ask  some  words  with  her.    Well,  why  do  you  i 
Stand  bursting  with  some  news  that  you  must  tell  ? 

What  sudden  thing  has  happened  ?  i 

Car.                                                             Nothing,  sir.  ^ 

Gio.     Leave  me  and  take  my  message !  : 

[Exeunt  Carlo  and  Attendants.]  ! 

Enter  Lucrezia  ' 

Luc.     So  soon  returned,  Giovanni?  • 

Gio.                                                   a  few  hours'  \ 

Fast  fighting  ended  it,  Lucrezia.  ! 

What  news  at  home  ?  j 

Luc.  Oh,  Paola  is  returned ! 

Gio.     Paola  returned !    Wliat !   from  the  grave  ?  i 

Luc.  The  graver 

Gio.     I  left  him  dead,  or  going  to  his  death. 

Luc.     What  do  you  mean? 

Gio.  I  heard  from  his  own  mouth 

That  he  and  she  did  for  each  other  burn. 

Luc.     He  told  you  ? 

Gio.  No,  not  me ;  but  yet  I  heard. 

Luc.     And  you  on  the  instant  killed  him? 

Gio.  No,  he  stole 

Away  to  die :   I  thought  him  dead :  't  were  better.  ' 

Now  like  a  thief  he  creeps  back  to  the  house !  l 

To  her  for  whom  I  had  begun  to  long  ■ 

So  late  in  life  that  now  I  may  not  cease                     '  J 

From  longing!  I 

Luc.     Her  that  you  must  drug  to  kiss  !  \ 

Will  you  not  smell  the  potion  in  her  sigh?  ' 

A  few  more  drops,  then  what  a  mad  caress!  j 

Gio.     He  hath  crept  back  like  a  thief  into  the  house  —  | 

A  thief  —  a  liar ;  he  feigned  the  will  to  die.  '> 

Lucrezia,  when  old  Angela  foretold,  l 

I  feared  not  him ;  when  he  was  pointed  at,  ^ 

I  doubted  still :    even  after  his  own  words,  ' 

Then,  then  had  I  forgiven  him,  for  he  j 

Went  out  as  to  a  grave.    But  now  I  am  changed  —  ] 

I  will  be  wary  of  this  creeping  thing.  j 

0,  I  have  no  emotion  now,  no  blood.  j 
No  longer  I  postpone  or  fight  this  doom: 

I  see  that  it  must  be,  and  I  am  grown  i 

The  accomplice  and  the  instrument  of  Fate,  l 

A  blade !   a  knife  !  —  no  more. 

1 

I 

■I 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  353 

Luc.  He  has  been  here 

Since  yestermom. 

Gio.  Yet  I  '11  be  no  assassin, 

Or  rashly  kill :   I  have  not  seen  them  kiss. 
I  '11  wait  to  find  them  in  each  other's  arms, 
And  stab  them  there  enfolded  and  entwined. 
And  so  to  all  men  justify  my  deed. 
Yet  how  to  find  them,  where  to  kill  is  just? 

Luc.         Give  out  that  this  is  no  return,  but  merely 
An  intermission  of  the  war;   that  j'ou 
Must  ride  back  to  the  camp  within  the  hour, 
And  for  some  days  be  absent :   he  and  she 
Will  seize  upon  the  dark  and  lucky  hour 
To  be  together;  watch  you  round  the  house, 
And  suddenly  take  them  in  each  other's  arms. 

Gio.         This  plan  commends  itself  to  my  cold  heart. 

Luc.         Here  comes  Francesca.    Shall  I  stay,  then? 

Gio.         Stay ! 

Efiter  Francesca 

Franc.    Sir,  you  have  asked  for  me.    I  did  not  know 
You  were  so  soon  returned. 

Gio.  Soldiers'  returns 

Are  sudden  and  oft  unexpected. 

Fraxc.  Sir, 

How  pale  you  are  !    You  are  not  wounded  ? 

Gio.  _  No! 

A  scratch  perhaps.    Give  me  some  wine,  Francesca, 
For  suddenly  I  must  be  gone  again. 

Franc.    I  thought  thiis  broil  was  ended  ? 

Gio.  No  !  not  yet. 

Some  days  I  may  be  absent,  and  can  go 
More  lightly  since  I  leave  you  not  alone. 
To  Paola  I  commend  you,  to  my  brother. 
Loyal  he  is  to  me,  loyal  and  true. 
He  has  also  a  gaiety  of  mind 
Which  I  have  ever  lacked :  he  is  besides 
More  suited  to  your  years,  can  sing  and  play, 
And  has  the  art  long  hours  to  entertain. 
To  him  I  leave  you,  and  must  go  forthwith. 

[He  makes  to  go,  then  turns.'\ 
Come  here,  Francesca,  kiss  me  —  yet  not  so. 
You  put  your  lips  up  to  me  like  a  child. 

23 


354  SELECTED   READINGS 

!Franc.    'T  is  not  so  long  ago  I  was  a  child. 

[Seizing  his  arm.'] 

0  sir,  is  it  wise,  is  it  well  to  go  away  ? 
Gio.         What  do  30U  mean? 

Franc.  I  have  a  terror  here. 

Gig.         Can  yon  not  bear  to  part  with  me  some  hours  ? 

Franc.    I  dread  to  be  alone :   I  fear  the  night 

And  yon  great  chamber,  the  resort  of  spirits. 

1  see  men  hunted  on  the  air  by  hounds : 
Thin  faces  of  your  house,  with  weary  smiles. 
The  dead  who  frown  I  fear  not ;  but  I  fear 
The  dead  who  smile !    The  very  palace  rocks, 
Eemembering  at  midnight;   and  I  see 
"Women  within  these  walls  immured  alive 
Come  starving  to  my  bed  and  ask  for  food. 

Gio.         Take  some  one,  then,  to  sleep  with  you  —  Lucrezia, 

Or  little  Nita  else :  lie  not  alone. 
Franc.     [Still  detaining  him.']    Yet  go  not,  sir. 
Gio.  What  is  it  that  3'ou  fear  ? 

Franc.    Sir,  go  not,  go  not! 
Gio.  Child,  I  cannot  stay 

For  fancies,  and  at  once  I  '11  say  farewell 

To  both  of  you.    I  hear  my  courser  fret. 

[Exit  Giovanni.] 
Franc.  [Looking  after  him  and  turning  slowly.] 

Lucrezia,  will  you  lie  with  me  to-night? 
Luc.         I  will,  Francesca,  if  you  '11  have  it  so. 
Franc.    Oh,  some  one  I  can  touch  in  the  thick  night !  — 

"What  sound  is  that? 
Luc         [Going  to  windoiv.]    Your  husband  galloping 

Away  into  the  dark ;  now  he  is  gone. 

[She  looks  from  the  window,  then  turns.] 

I  left  young  Paola  pacing  up  and  down ; 

[Loohing  steadfastly  at  her.] 

He  seemed  as  faint  for  company  as  you. 

Say,  shall  I  call  him  in  as  I  go  out? 

He  will  help  waste  the  tardy  time. 
Franc.     [QuicMy.]  No,  no ! 

Luc.         Is  there  some  little  feud  'twixt  you  and  him  ? 

For  when  you  meet  words  slowly  come  to  you  — 

You  scarce  look  in  each  other's  eyes. 
Franc.  No  feud. 

Luc.        Eemember,  when  Giovanni  married  you 


SCENES   AND    DIALOGUES  355 

These  two  were  to  each  other  all  in  all; 

And  so  excuse  some  natural  jealousy 

Of  you  from  him. 
Fraxc.  I  think  he  means  me  well. 

Luc.         Then  shall  I  call  him  in  ? 
Franc.  0,  why  so  eager? 

"Where  would  all  those  about  me  drive  me?     First 

My  husband  earnestly  to  Paola 

Commends  me;  and  now  you  must  call  him  in. 

[Wildly.']  Where  can  I  look  for  pity?    Lucrezia 

You  have  no  children? 
Luc.  None. 

Franc.  Nor  ever  had  ? 

Luc.        Nor  ever  had. 
Fraxc.  But  yet  you  are  a  woman. 

I  have  no  mother :  let  me  be  your  child 

To-night.    I  am  so  utterly  alone ! 

Be  gentle  with  me;  or  if  not,  at  least 

Let  me  go  home.     This  world  is  difficult. 

Oh,  think  of  me  as  of  a  little  child 

That  looks  into  your  face,  and  asks  your  hand. 
[Lucrezia  softly  touches  Francesca's  hair.] 

Why  do  you  touch  my  head  ?    Why  do  you  weep  ? 

I  would  not  pain  you. 
Luc.  Ah,  Francesca  !    You 

Have  touched  me  where  my  life  is  quivering  most. 

I  have  no  child:  and  yet  if  I  had  borne  one 

I  could  have  wished  her  hair  had  been  this  color. 
Fraxc.    I  am  too  suddenly  cast  in  this  whirl ! 

Too  suddenly !     I  bad  but  convent  thoughts. 

0  woman,  woman,  take  me  to  you  and  hold  me ! 

[She  throws  herself  into   Lucrezia's  arms.'] 
Luc         [Clasping  Francesca  to  her].     At  last  the  long 
ice  melts,  and  oh,  relief 
Of  rain  that  rushes  from  me!     Child,  my  cliild  ! 

1  clasp  you  close,  close!     Do  you  fear  me  still? 
Have  you  not  heard  love  is  more  fierce  than  hale? 
Koughly  I  grasp  what  I  have  hunted  long. 

You  cannot  know  —  how  should  you  ?  —  that  you 
are 

More,  so  much  more,  to  me  than  just  a  child. 
Franc.    I  seem  to  understand  a  little. 
Luc.  Close, 


356  SELECTED    READINGS 

I  hold  you  close !    It  was  not  all  in  vain, 
The  holy  babble  and  pillow  kissed  all  o'er ! 

0  my  embodied  dream  with  eyes  and  hair! 
Visible  aspiration  with  soft  hands ! 
Tangible  vision !     Oh,  art  thou  alive, 
Francesca,  dost  thou  move  and  breathe?     Speak, 

speak ! 
Say  human  words  out,  lest  thou  vanish  quite ! 
Your  very  flesh  is  of  my  sighs  composed, 
Your  blood  is  crimson  with  my  passioning! 
And  now  I  have  conceived  and  have  brought  forth ; 
And  I  exult  in  front  of  the  great  sun: 
And  I  laugh  out  with  riches  on  my  lap ! 
And  you  will  deem  me  mad !  but  do  not,  Sweet : 

1  am  not  mad,  only  I  am  most  happy. 

I  '11  dry  my  tears  —  but  oh,  if  thou  should  'st  die  ? 
[Aside.]     And  ah,  my  God  ! 
Franc.  "Why  did  you  start? 

Luc.         [Aside.]  To  stay  him! 

[To  Francesca,  tahing  her  hands.]     But  I  should 

be  the  shadow  of  a  mother 
If  here  I  ceased.     Francesca,  I  well  know 
That  'twixt  bright  Paola  and  dark  Giovanni 
You  stand.    You  hinted  at  some  peril  there. 
I  ask  to  know  no  more ;  but  take  these  words : 
Be  not  in  company  with  Paola 
To-night.    [AsicZe.]     Giovanni  must  be  found.    My 

child, 
I  have  some  business  on  the  moment,  but 
Within  the  hour  I  will  return  —  [Aside.]     How 

find  him? 
And  sleep  with  you.    [Asi'c^e.]    I  '11  search  all  secret 

places. 
Kiss  me.    Eemember,  then !    [Aside.]   'T  is  not  too 

late ! 
What  meshes  have  I  woven  for  what  I  love? 

Stephen  Phillips. 
Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  357 

THE   QUARREL  OF   BRUTUS   AND   CASSIUS 

From  "  Julius  C^sar,"  Act  IV,  Scene  3 

ScEXE :  Brutus' s  Tent 
Cas. 

THx\T  5'ou  have  wrong'd  me  doth  appear  in  this : 
You  have  condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians; 
Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Bru.  You  wrong'd  yourself  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.  In  such  a  time  as  this  it  is  not  meet 

That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 

Are  much  condemn'd  to  have  an  itching  palm. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm ! 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last, 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corruption, 

And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement ! 

Bru,  Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember: 

Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  touch'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?    What,  shall  one  of  us. 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon. 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me; 

I  '11  not  endure  it :   you  forget  yourself. 
To  hedge  me  in ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.  I  am. 

Bru.  I  say  you  are  not. 

Cas.  Urge  me  no  more,  T  shall  forget  myself; 

Have  mind  upon  your  health,  temper  mo  no  farther. 


358  SELECTED   READINGS 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man! 

Cas.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares? 

Cas.  0  ye  gods,  ye  gods !   must  I  endure  all  this  ? 

Bru.  All  this!  ay,  more;  fret  till  your  proud  heart 

break ; 
Go  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  5^ou  are. 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?  must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor?    By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen. 
Though  it  do  split  you;  for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I  '11  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
Wlien  you  are  waspish, 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this? 

Bru.  You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier: 

Let  it  appear  so;  make  your  vaunting  true. 
And  it  shall  please  me  well:  for  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.  You    wrong    me    every    way;    you    wrong    me, 

Brutus ; 
I  said,  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better: 
Did  I  say  "  better  "  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.  "When  Ceesar  liv'd,  he  durst  not  thus  have  moved 

me. 

Bru.  Peace,  peace !  you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

Cas.  I  durst  not! 

Bru.  No. 

Cas.  What,  durst  not  tempt  him! 

Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love; 

I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 

There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats. 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind. 
Which  I  respect  not.    I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me : 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  359 

And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 

From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 

By  any  indirection :    I  did  send 

To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 

TVTiich  you  denied  me :     Was  that  done  like  Cassius  ? 

Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so? 

'Wlien  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous. 

To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 

Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts; 

Dash  him  to  pieces ! 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not:  he  was  but  a  fool  that  brought 

My  answer  back.     Brutus  hath  riv'd  my  heart: 
A  friend  should  bear  his  friend's  infirmities. 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.  I  do  not,  till  you  practise  them  on  me. 

Cas,  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.  a  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.  a  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 

As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 

Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves;  braved  by  his  brother;  '■ 

Check'd  like  a  bondman ;  all  his  faults  observed,  j 

Set  in  a  note-book,  learn'd,  and  conn'd  by  rote,  ! 

To  cast  into  my  teeth.     0,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes!     There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast;  within,  a  heart  I 

Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold:  • 

If  that  thou  be  'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth ;  I 

I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart:  i 

Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar;   for,  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lovedst  him  i 

better  i 

Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Cassius.  ■ 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger :  j 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope;  j 

Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor.  i 

0  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb  ; 

That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire;  1 


360  SELECTED    READINGS 

"Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  liasty  spark. 

And  straight  is  cold  again. 
Cas.  Hath  Cassius  lived 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 

When  grief,  and  blood  ill-temper'd,  vexeth  him? 
Bru.  When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-tempered  too. 

Cas.  Do  3^ou  confess  so  much?    Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 

Cas.  0  Brutus! 

Bru.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  not  you  love  enough  to  bear  with  me. 

When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me 

Makes  me  forgetful? 
Bru.  Yes,  Cassius ;  and,  from  henceforth, 

When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 

He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 

Shakespeare. 
Abridged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


SCENE    FROM    "AS    YOU    LIKE    IT" 

Act  IV,  Scene  1 

[Orlando  has  failed  to  keep  an  engagement  with  Rosalind.    She  is 
angry  and  addresses  him  in  tones  of  reproach  and  threat.] 

ROS.  Why,  how  now,  Orlando !  where  have  you  been  all 
this  while  ?  You  a  lover !  An  you  serve  me  such  an- 
other trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Eosalind,  I  come  witliin  an  hour  of  my 
promise. 

Eos.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love !  He  that  will 
divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts  and  break  but  a  part 
of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love, 
it  may  be  said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o'  the 
shoulder,  but  I  '11  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.    Pardon  me,  dear  Eosalind. 

Eos.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my  sight : 
I  had  as  lief  be  wooed  of  a  snail. 

Orl.     Of  a  snail? 

Eos.  Ay,  of  a  snail;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he 
carries  his  house  on  his  head.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me,  for 
now  I  am  in  a  holiday  humor  and  like  enough  to  consent. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  361 

What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your  very  very 
Eosalind  ? 

Obl.     I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Eos.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first.  Very  good 
orators,  when  they  are  out,  they  will  spit;  and  for  lovers 
lacking  —  matter,  the  cleanliest  shift  is  to  kiss. 

Orl.     How  if  the  kiss  be  denied? 

Eos.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there  begins 
new  matter.    Am  not  I  your  Eosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would  be 
talking  of  her. 

Eos.    Well  in  her  person  I  say  I  will  not  have  you. 

Orl.    Then  in  mine  own  person  I  die. 

Eos.  Xo,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is 
almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time  there 
was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person.  Men  have  died 
from  time  to  time  and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for 
love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Eosalind  of  this  mind, 
for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Eos.  Why  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good 
thing?  Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest  and  marry  us. 
Give  me  .your  hand,  Orlando.    What  do  you  say,  sister? 

Orl.    Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.    I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Eos.    You  must  begin,  "  Will  you,  Orlando  —  " 

Cel.  Go  to.  Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife  this  Eosa- 
lind? 

Orl.    I  will. 

Eos.    Ay,  but  when? 

Orl.    Why  now;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Eos.    Then  you  must  say  "  I  take  thee,  Eosalind,  for  wife." 

Orl.     I  take  thee,  Eosalind,  for  wife. 

Eos.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  have  her  after 
you  have  possessed  her. 

Orl.    For  ever  and  a  day. 

Eos.  Say  "  a  day,"  without  the  "  ever."  No,  no,  Orlando ; 
men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December  when  they  wed: 
maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids,  but  the  sky  changes 
when  they  are  wives. 

Orl.    But  will  my  Eosalind  do  so? 

Eos.     By  ray  life,  she  will  do  as  T  do. 

Orl.    For  tliese  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 


362  SELECTED   READINGS 

Ros.    Alas !   dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner :  by  two  o'clock  I 
will  be  with  thee  again. 

Eos.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways;  I  knew  what  you 
would  prove :  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no 
less:  that  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me.  Two  o'clock 
is  your  hour? 

Orl.    Ay,  sweet  Eosalind.  \_Exit.'] 

Ros.  0  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  eoz,  that  thou  didst 
know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in  love!  But  it  cannot 
be  sounded :  my  affection  hath  an  unknown  bottom,  like  the 
bay  of  Portugal.  I  '11  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of 
the  sight  of  Orlando :  I  '11  go  find  a  shadow  and  sigh  till  he 
come. 

Cel.    And  I  '11  to  sleep.  [Exeunt.'] 


Shakespeare. 


Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


MRS.    PAGE    AND    MRS.    FORD 

Scene  from  "The  Merry  Wives  op  Windsor/' 
Act  II,  Scene  1 
Before  Page's  House.    Enter  Mistress  Page,  witli  a  letter. 
"RS.  PAGE.    Wliat!   have  I  'scaped  love-letters  in  the 


M^ 


holiday  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a  subject 
for  them?    Let  me  see.  [Eeads.] 

"  Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you ;  for  though  Love  use 
Reason  for  his  precisian,  he  admits  him  not  for  his  coun- 
sellor. You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I;  go  to,  then, 
there 's  sympathy :  you  are  merry,  so  am  I ;  ha,  ha !  then 
there's  more  sympathy;  you  love  sack,  and  so  do  I ;  would 
you  desire  better  sympathy?  Let  it  suffice  thee.  Mistress 
Page,  —  at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  soldier  can  suffice,  — 
that  I  love  thee.  I  will  not  say,  pity  me ;  't  is  not  a  soldier- 
like phrase:  but  I  say,  love  me.    By  me, 

Thine  own  true  knight, 

By  day  or  night, 

Or  any  kind  of  light, 

With  all  his  might 

For  thee  to  fight,  John  Falstaff." 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  3G3 

What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this !  Oh,  wicked,  wicked 
world!  One  that  is  well  nigh  worn  to  pieces  with  age,  to 
show  himself  a  young  gallant !  .  .  .  How  shall  I  be  re- 
venged on  him  ?  for  revenged  I  will  be. 

Enter  Mistress  Ford 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page !  trust  me,  I  was  going  to  your 
house. 

Mrs.  Ford.     Oh,  Mistress  Page,  give  me  some  counsel ! 

Mrs.  Page.  And,  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to  you.  You 
look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Oh,  Mistress  Page,  give  me  some  coimsel ! 

Mrs.  Page.     What's  the  matter,  woman? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Oh,  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one  trifling 
respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honor! 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman !  take  the  honor. 
What  is  it  ?   dispense  with  trifles ;   what  is  it  ? 

Mrs,  Ford.    I  could  be  knighted. 

Mrs.  Page,     ^^^lat  ?    thou  liest !  —  Sir  Alice  Ford ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  burn  daylight !  —  here,  read,  read ;  per- 
ceive how  I  might  be  knighted.  .  .  .  How  shall  I  be  re- 
venged on  him?  .   .   .  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like? 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter,  but  that  the  name  of  Page 
and  Ford  differs!  To  thy  great  comfort  in  this  mystery 
of  ill  opinions,  here's  the  twin  brother  of  thy  letter. 
[Laughs.]  I  warrant  he  hath  a  thousand  of  these  letters, 
writ  with  blank  space  for  different  names. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  this  is  the  very  same;  the  very  hand, 
the  very  words.     What  doth  he  think  of  us? 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not;  it  makes  me  almost  ready 
to  wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty.  I  '11  entertain  myself 
like  one  that  I  am  not  acquainted  withal;  for,  sure,  unless 
he  know  some  strain  in  me,  that  I  know  not  myself,  he 
would  never  have  boarded  me  in  this  fury.  Let's  be  re- 
venged on  him:  let's  appoint  him  a  meeting;  give  him  a 
show  of  comfort  in  his  suit  and  lead  him  on  with  fine- 
baited  delay,  till  he  hath  pawned  his  horses  to  mine  host 
of  the  Garter. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  villainy  against 
him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  of  our  honesty.  Oh, 
that  my  husband  saw  this  letter!  it  would  give  eternal  food 
to  his  jealousy. 


364  SELECTED   READINGS 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  look  where  he  comes;  and  my  good 
man  too.  He 's  as  far  from  jealousy  as  I  am  from  giving 
him  cause. 

Mrs.  Ford.    You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs.  Page.  Let 's  consult  together  against  this  greasy 
knight.  [Exeunt.] 

Shakespeare. 
Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


SCENE    FROM    "TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF 

VERONA " 

Act  I,  Scene  2 

Verona.    The  Garden  of  Julia's  House 

Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta 


Jul. 

BUT  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Wouldst  thou,  then,  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 
Luc.     Ay,  madam;  so  you  stumble  not  unheedfully. 
Jul.     Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen 

That  every  day  with  parle  encounter  me. 

In  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love? 
Luc.     Please  you  repeat  their  names,  I  '11  show  my  mind 

According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 
Jul.     What  think 'st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour? 
Luc.     As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine; 

But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 
Jul.     What  think  'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 
Luc.     Well  of  his  wealth;  but  of  himself,  so  so. 
Jul.     What  think  'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 
Luc.     Lord,  Lord !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us ! 
Jul.     How  now!  what  means  this  passion  at  his  name? 
Luc.     Pardon,   dear  Madam :  't  is  a  passing  shame 

That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am, 

Should  censure  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 
Jul.     WTiy  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest? 
Luc.     Then  thus,  —  of  many  good  I  think  him  best. 
Jul.     Your  reason? 
Luc.     I  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason; 

I  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 
Jul.     And  Avouldst  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on  him? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  365 

Luc.     A3',  if  3'oii  thought  your  love  not  cast  away. 
Jul.     AVhy,  he,  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  mov'd  nie. 

Luc.     Yet  he,  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves  ye.  ,. 

Jul.     His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small.  ; 
Luc.     Fire  that's  closest  kept  burns  most  of  all. 
Jul.     They  do  not  love  that  do  not  show  their  love. 

Luc.     Oh,  they  love  least  that  let  men  know  their  love.  1 

Jul.     I  would  I  knew  his  mind.  \ 

Luc.     Peruse  this  paper,  madam.     (Gives  a  letter.)  \ 

Jul.     [Reads.']    "  To  Julia."  —  Say,  from  whom  ?  j 

Luc.     That  the  contents  will  show.  | 

Jul.     Say,  say,  who  gave  it  thee?  j 

Luc.     Sir  Valentine's  page ;  and  sent,  I  think,  from  Proteus.  ! 
He  would  have  given  it  you ;  but  I,  being  in  the  way. 

Did  in  your  name  receive  it :  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray,                ) 

Jul.     Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker !  \ 

Dare  you  presume  to  harbor  wanton  lines?  j 

To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth?  1 

Now,  trust  me,  't  is  an  office  of  great  worth,  ' 

And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place.  : 

There,  take  the  paper:  see  it  be  return'd;  ; 

Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight.  i 

Luc.     To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate.  j 
Jul.     Will  you  be  gone? 

Luc.     That  you  may  ruminate.  [Exit.'] 

Jul.     And  3^et  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  the  letter: 

It  were  a  shafne  to  call  her  back  again,  \ 

And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her.  1 

\Miat  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid,  ,; 

And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view!  ' 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  "  No  "  to  that 

Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe,  "  Ay.'^  1 

Fie,  fie,  how  wa3'ward  is  this  foolish  love,  j 

That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse,  j 

And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod !  ! 

How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence,  ' 
When  willingly  I  would  have  had  her  here! 
Plow  angerly  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 

When  inward  joy  enforc'd  my  heart  to  smile!  ; 

My  penance  is  to  call  Lucetta  back,  j 

And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past.  —  : 

What,  ho!  Lucetta!  ! 


/ 


366  SELECTED   READINGS 


Be-enter  Lucetta 


Luc.  What  would  your  ladyship  ? 

Jul.     Is  't  near  dinner-time  ? 
Luc.     I  would  it  were ; 

That  you  might  kill  your  stomach  on  your  meat, 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 
Jul.     ^Vhat  is  't  that  you  took  up  so  gingerly? 
Luc.     Nothing. 

Jul.     Why  didst  thou  stoop,  then? 
Luc.     To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 
Jul.     And  is  that  paper  nothing? 
Luc.     Nothing  concerning  me. 
Jul.     Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 
Luc.     Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 

Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 
Jul.     Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 
Luc.     That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune. 

Give  me  a  note:  your  ladyship  can  set. 
Jul.     As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible. 

Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  "Light  o'  love." 
Luc.     It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 
Jul.     Heavy !  belike  it  hath  some  burden,  then  ?  _ 
Luc.     Ay ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  j^ou  sing  it. 
Jul.     And  why  not  you? 

Luc.  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.     Let's  see  your  song.     [Talcing  the  letter.] 

How  now,  minion! 
Luc.     Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out: 

And  yet  methinks  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 
Jul.     You  do  not? 

Luc.  No,  madam ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

Jul.     You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 
Luc.     Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat. 

And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant : 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 
Jul.     The  mean  is  drown'd  with  your  unruly  base. 
Luc.     Indeed,  I  bid  the  base  for  Proteus. 
Jul.     This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 

Here  is  a  coil  with  protestation!  —  [Tears  the  letter.'] 
Go  get  you  gone,  and  let  the  papers  lie : 
You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  367 

Luc.     She  makes  it  strange;  but  she  would  be  best  pleas'd 
To  be  so  anger'd  with  another  letter.  [Exit.] 

Jul.     ^ay,  would  I  were  so  anger'd  with  the  same  !  j 

Oh,  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words !  I 

Injurious  wasps,  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey,  '■ 

And  kill  the  bees  that  yield  it  with  your  stings !  \ 

I  '11  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends.  ] 

Look,  here  is  writ  —  "  Kind  Julia :  "  —  unkind  Julia !  J 

As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude,  ' 

I  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones,  ! 

Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain.  ' 

And  here  is  writ  —  "  Love-wounded  Proteus :  "  ' 
Poor  wounded  name !  —  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  throughly  heal'd :  ' 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss.  ' 

But  twice  or  thrice  was  "  Proteus  "  written  down :  —  1 
Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away. 

Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter,  , 

Except  mine  own  name :  that  some  whirlwind  bear  ; 

Unto  a  ragged,  fearful,  hanging  rock,  I 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea !  —  ] 
Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ,  — 

"  Poor  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus,  I 

To  the  sweet  Julia :  "  —  that  I  '11  tear  away ;  i 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sitH  so  prettily  ' 

He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names.  j 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another:  | 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will.  i 

Re-enter  Lucetta  : 

Luc.     Madam,  i 

Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays.  ; 

Jul.     Well,  let  us  go.  i 

Luc.     "WTiat,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales  here?  j 

Jul.     If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up.  j 

Luc.     Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down  :  I 

Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold. 

Jul.     I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  to  them.  i 
Luc.     Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you  see ; 

I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink.  j 

Jul.     Come,  come ;  will 't  please  you  go  ?              [Exeunt.']  i 

Shakespeare.  i 


368  SELECTED   READINGS 

DIALOGUE    FROM    "TWELFTH    NIGHT" 

From  Act  I,  Scene  5 

MALVOLIO.  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick ;  he  takes 
on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak 
with  3^ou.  I  told  him  you  were  asleep;  he  seems  to  have  a 
foreknowledge  of  that  too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with 
you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ?  he  's  fortified  against 
any  denial. 

Olivia.    Tell  him  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Malvolio.  Has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he  '11  stand  at 
your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,  and  be  the  supporter  to  a 
bench,  but  he  '11  speak  with  you. 

Olivia.    "Wliat  kind  o'  man  is  he? 

Malvolio.    Why,  of  mankind. 

Olivia.    What  manner  of  man? 

Malviolo.  Of  very  ill  manner;  he'll  speak  with  you, 
will  you  or  no. 

Olivia.     Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he? 

Malvolio.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy ;  as  a  squash  is  before  't  is  a  peascod,  or  a 
codling  when  't  is  almost  an  apple :  't  is  with  him  in  stand- 
ing water,  between  boy  and  man.  He  is  very  well-favored 
and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would  think  his  mother's 
milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Olivia.    Let  him  approach:   call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Malvolio.     Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit.] 

Enter  Maria 

Olivia.  Give  me  my  veil :  come,  throw  it  o'er  my  face. 
We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  Viola 

Viola.    The  honorable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she? 

Olivia.    Speak  to  me ;  I  shall  answer  for  her.    Your  will  ? 

Viola.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beauty, 
—  I  pray  yon,  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  for 
I  never  saw  her:  I  would  be  loath  to  cast  away  my  speech, 
for  besides  that  it  is  excellently  well  penned,  I  have  taken 
great  pains  to  con  it. 

Olivia,    Whence  came  you,  sir? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  369 

YiOLA.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and 
that  question  's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give  me 
modest  assurance  if  you  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  that  I 
may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

Olivia.    Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Viola.  No,  my  profound  heart;  and  yet,  by  the  very 
fangs  of  malice  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play.  Are  you  the 
lady  of  the  house? 

Olivia.    If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Viola.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp  your- 
self; for  what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  not  yours  to  reserve. 
But  this  is  from  my  commission;  I  will  on  with  my  speech 
in  your  praise,  and  then  show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

Olivia.  Come  to  what  is  important  in^t.  I  forgive  you 
the  praise. 

Viola.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis 
poetical. 

Olr'ia.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned:  I  pray  you, 
keep  it  in.  I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates,  and 
allowed  your  approach  rather  to  wonder  at  you  than  to  hear 
you.  If  you  be  not  mad,  be  gone;  if  you  have  reason,  be 
brief ;  't  is  not  that  time  of  moon  with  me  to  make  one  in 
so  skipping  a  dialogue. 

Maria.    Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir?  here  lies  your  way. 

Viola.  No,  good  swabber;  I  am  to  hull  here  a  little 
longer.    I  am  a  messenger. 

Olivia.     Speak  your  office. 

Viola.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no  overture 
of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage :  I  hold  the  olive  in  my  hand ; 
m}'  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as  matter. 

Olivia.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you?  what 
would  you? 

Viola.  What  I  am,  and  what  I  would,  are  ...  to  your 
ears,  divinity;    to  any  other's,  profanation. 

Olivia.  Give  us  the  place  alone;  we  will  hear  this 
divinity.     [Exit  Maria.]     Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text? 

Viola.    Most  sweet  lady,  — 

Olivia.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be  said 
of  it.    WTiere  lies  your  text? 

Viola.     In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Olivia.    In  his  bosom  !    In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom? 

Viola.     To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his 

heart. 

24 


370  SELECTED   READINGS 

Olivia.  0,  I  have  read  it;  it  is  heresy.  Have  you  no 
more  to  say  ? 

Viola.    Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Olivia.  Have  you  any  commission  from  my  lord  to 
negotiate  with  my  face  ?  You  are  now  out  of  your  text ;  but 
we  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show  you  the  picture.  Look 
you,  sir,  such  a  one  I  was  this  present ;   is 't  not  well  done  ? 

[Unveiling.^ 

Viola.     Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

Olivia.  'T  is  in  grain,  sir ;  't  will  endure  Avind  and 
weather. 

Viola.    'T  is  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruell'st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Olivia.    0,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I  will  give 
out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty.     It  shall  be  inventoried, 
and  every  particle  and  utensil  labelled  to  my  will ;   as,  item, 
two  lips,  indifferent  red;    item,  two  gray  eyes,  with  lids  to         \ 
them;    item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.     Were  you         ! 
sent  hither  to  praise  me?  ! 

Viola.    I  see  you  what  you  are,  —  you  are  too  proud;  ; 

But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair.  I 

My  lord  and  master  loves  you :   0,  such  love  ■ 

Could  be  but  recompens'd,  though  you  were  crown'd  •  ,: 

The  nonpareil  of  beauty !  i 

Olivia.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Viola.     With  adorations,  fertile  tears,  '■ 

With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire.  I 

Olivia.     Your  lord  does  know  my  mind;    I  cannot  love         : 
him :  | 

Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble,  I 

Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth;  ; 

.  .  .  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him ;  ^ 

He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Viola.     If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame,  i 

With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life,  \ 

In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense;  I 

I  would  not  understand  it.  j 

Olivia.  Why,  what  would  you?  ■] 

Viola.    Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate,  ] 

And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house;  ; 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  371 

Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Halloo  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills. 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out  "'  Olivia !  "    0,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth. 
But  you  should  pity  me ! 

Shakespeare. 

SCENE    FROM    "  CORIOLANUS  " 

Act  I,  Scene  3 

A  Room  in  Marcius'  House 

[Enier  Yolumxia  and  Virgilia:   they  sit  down  on  two  low 
stools,  and  seiv.} 

VOL.  I  pray  you,  daughter,  sing;  or  express  yourself  in 
a  more  comfortable  sort :  if  my  son  were  my  husband, 
I  should  freelier  rejoice  in  that  absence  wherein  he  won  honor 
than  in  the  embracements  where  he  should  show  most  love. 
When  yet  he  was  but  tender-bodied,  and  the  only  son  of  my 
womb;  when  youth  with  comeliness  plucked  all  gaze  his 
way;  when,  for  a  day  of  kings'  entreaties,  a  mother  should 
not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  beholding ;  I,  —  considering 
how  honor  would  become  such  a  person ;  that  it  was  no  better 
than  picturelike  to  hang  by  the  wall,  if  renown  made  it  not 
stir,  —  was  pleased  to  let  him  seek  danger  where  he  was 
like  to  find  fame.  To  a  cruel  war  I  sent  him;  from  whence 
he  returned,  his  brows  bound  with  oak.  I  tell  thee,  daughter, 
—  I  sprang  not  more  in  joy  at  first  hearing  he  was  a  man- 
child,  than  now  in  first  seeing  he  had  proved  himself  a  man. 

ViR.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam,  —  how 
then? 

Vol.  Then  his  good  report  should  have  been  my  son;  I 
therein  would  have  found  issue.  Hear  me  profess  sincerely: 
had  I  a  dozen  sons,  each  in  my  love  alike,  and  none  less 
dear  than  thine  and  my  good  Marcius,  I  had  rather  had 
eleven  die  nobly  for  their  country  than  one  voluptuously 
surfeit  out  of  action. 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman 

Gent.    ^Madam,  the  Lady  Valeria  is  come  to  visit  you. 
ViR.    Beseech  you,  give  mc  leave  to  retire  myself. 


372  SELECTED    READINGS  I 

Vol.     Indeed  you  shall  not,  i 

Methinks  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum. 

See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair,  ; 

As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Volsces  shunning  him :  | 

Methinks  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus,  — 

"  Come  on,  you  cowards !   you  were  got  in  fear, 

Though  you  were  born  in  Eome :  "  his  bloody  brow  | 

With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes;  I 

Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that 's  task'd  to  mow  j 

Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire.  I 

ViR.     His  bloody  brow!     0  Jupiter,  no  blood!  i 

Vol.    Away,  you  fool !   it  more  becomes  a  man  : 

Than  gilt  Ms  trophy :   The  breasts  of  Hecuba,  | 

When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 

Than  Hector's  forehead  when  it  spit  forth  blood  i 

At  Grecian  sword's  contemning.     Tell  Valeria  i 

We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [Exit  Gent.]         i 

ViR.     Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufidius!  | 

Vol.    He  '11  beat  Aufidius'  head  below  his  knee,  j 

And  tread  upon  his  neck.  j 

Re-enter  Gentlewoman,  with  Valeria  and  her  Usher  | 

Val.    My  ladies  both,  good  day  to  you.  j 

Vol.    Sweet  madam.  i 

ViR.     I  am  glad  to  see  your  ladyship.  \ 

Val.    How  do  you  both?  you  are  manifest  housekeepers.  ] 

What  are  you  sewing  here  ?    A  fine  spot  in  good  faith.  —  i 

How  does  your  little  son?  j 

ViR.    I  thank  your  ladyship ;  well,  good  madam.  ■ 

Vol.    He  had  rather  see  the  sv^ords,  and  hear  a  drum,  than  i 

look  upon  his  schoolmaster.  ' 

Val.     0'  my  word,  the  father's  son  :    I  '11  swear,  't  is  a  i 

very  pretty  boy.    0'  my  troth,  I  looked  upon  him  o'  Wednes-  \ 

day  half  an  hour  together :    he  has  such  a  confirmed  coun-  | 

tenance.    I  saw  him  run  after  a  gilded  butterfly ;  and  when  j 

he  caught  it,  he  let  it  go  again ;    and  after  it  again ;    and  ' 

over  and  over  he  comes,  and  up  again ;   catched  it  again :   or  i 

whether  his  fall  enraged  him,  or  how  't  was,  he  did  so  set  his  | 

teeth,  and  tear  it.    Oh,  I  warrant,  how  he  mammocked  it ! 

Vol.    One  on 's  father's  moods.  ;> 

Val.    Indeed,  la,  't  is  a  noble  child.    Come,  lay  aside  your  ] 

stitchery;    I  must  have  you  play  the  idle  huswife  with  me  j 

this  afternoon. 


SCENES    AND    DIALOGUES  373 

Vie.    iSTo,  good  madam;   I  will  not  out  of  doors. 

Val.    Not  out  of  doors  ! 

YoL.    She  shall,  she  shall. 

ViR.  Indeed,  no,  by  your  patience;  I'll  not  over  the 
threshold  till  my  lord  return  from  the  wars. 

Val.  Fie,  you  confine  yourself  most  unreasonably :  come, 
3^ou  must  go  visit  the  good  lady  that  lies  in. 

ViR.  I  will  wish  her  speedy  strength,  and  visit  her  with 
my  prayers;   but  I  cannot  go  thither. 

Vol.    Why,  I  pray  you  ? 

ViR.    'T  is  not  to  save  labor,  nor  that  I  want  love. 

Val.  You  would  be  another  Penelope:  yet,  they  say,  all 
the  yam  she  spun  in  Ulysses'  absence  did  but  fill  Ithaca 
full  of  moths.  Come;  I  would  your  cambric  were  sensible 
as  your  finger,  that  you  might  leave  pricking  it  for  pity. 
Come,  you  shall  go  with  us. 

ViR.  No,  good  madam,  pardon  me:  indeed,  I  will  not 
forth. 

Val.  In  truth,  la,  go  with  me ;  and  I  '11  tell  you  excellent 
news  of  your  husband. 

ViR.     Oh,  good  madam,  there  can  be  none  yet. 

Val.  Verily,  I  do  not  jest  with  you;  there  came  news 
from  him  last  night. 

YiR.    Indeed,  madam? 

Val.  In  earnest,  it 's  true ;  I  heard  a  senator  speak  it. 
Thus  it  is :  —  The  Volsces  have  an  army  forth ;  against 
whom  Cominius  the  general  is  gone,  with  one  part  of  our 
Eoman  power:  your  lord  and  Titus  Lartius  are  set  down 
before  their  city  Corioli ;  they  nothing  doubt  prevailing,  and 
to  make  it  brief  wars.  This  is  true,  on  mine  honor ;  and  so, 
I  pray,  go  with  us. 

ViR.  Give  me  excuse,  good  madam;  I  will  obey  you  in 
everything  hereafter. 

Vol.  Let  her  alone,  lady:  as  she  is  now  she  will  but 
disease  our  better  mirth. 

Val.  In  troth,  I  think  she  would.  Fare  you  well,  then. 
Come,  good  sweet  lady.  IVythee,  Virgilia,  turn  thy  sol- 
eniness  out  o'  door,  and  go  along  with  us. 

ViR.  No,  at  a  word,  madam ;  indeed,  I  must  not.  I  wish 
you  much  mirth. 

Val.   "Well,  then,  farewell.  [Exeunt.'\ 

Shakespeare. 


374  SELECTED   READINGS 

SCENE    FROM    "KING    JOHN" 

Act  IV,  Scene  1 
Scene:  Northampton.    A  room  in  the  castle 


Enter  Hubert  and  tivo  attendants  ) 


Hub. 


H 


"EAT  me  these  irons  hot;  and  look  thou  stand 
Within  the  arras :    when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth, 
And  bind  the  boy  wliich  you  shall  find  with  me 
Fast  to  the  chair:   be  heedful:   hence,  and  watch. 
First  Attend. 

I  hope  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the  deed. 
Hub.      Uncleanly  scruples!    fear  not  you:    look  to't. 

[Exeunt  Attendants.'] 
Young  lad,  come  forth;   I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  Arthur 

Arth.    Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Good  morrow,  little  prince. 

Arth.    As  little  prince,  having  so  great  a  title 

To  be  more  prince,  as  may  be.     You  are  sad. 

Hub.      Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arth.  Mercy  on  me! 

Methinks  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night. 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
If  i  were  out  of  prison  and  kept  sheep, 
I  would  be  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long; 
And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 
My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me: 
He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him : 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geoffrey's  son? 
No,  indeed,  is 't  not ;  and  I  would  to  Heaven 
I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Hub.      [Aside.]    If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead: 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden  and  despatch. 

Arth.    Are  you  sick,  Hubert?   you  look  pale  to-day: 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  375  j 

That  I  might  sit  all  night  and  watch  with  you : 

I  warrant  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 
Hub.      lAside.'\      His    words    do    take    possession    of    my 
bosom.  — 

Eead  here,  young  Arthur.  [Showing  a  paper. 1 

[Aside-I    How  now,  foolish  rheum ! 

Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door! 

I  must  be  brief,  lest  resolution  drop 

Out  at  mine  eyes  in  tender  womanish  tears.  j 

Can  you  not  read  it?  is  it  not  fair  writ? 
Aeth.    Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect : 

Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ?  ' 

HcB.      Young  boy,  I  must. 
Akth.  And  will  you? 

Hub.  And   I   will. 

Akth.    Have  you  the  heart  ?    When  your  head  did  but  ache, 

I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows  ■ 

(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me). 

And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again ;  ! 

And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head; 

And  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour. 

Still  and  anon  cheer'd  up  the  heavy  time,  i 

Saying,  "  ^\^lat  lack  you  ?  "  and  "  Where  lies  your  ; 

grief  ?  '* 

Or  "What  good  love  may  I  perform  for  you?"  ■ 

Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lien  still,  i 

And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you;  i 

But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince.  '\ 

Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love,  J 

And  call  it  cunning :   do,  an  if  you  will :  ■ 

If  Heaven  be  pleas'd  that  you  must  use  me  ill,  i 

WTiy,  then  you  must.    Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes? 

These  eyes  that  never  did  nor  never  shall 

So  much  as  frown  on  you?  '! 

Hub.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it;  ' 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  bum  them  out. 

Arth.    An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me, 

And  told  me  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  woidd  not  have  believed  him,  —  no  tongue  but 

Hubert's.  j 

Hub.      Come  forth.  [Stamps.^  ! 


376 


SELECTED   READINGS 


Re-enter  Attendants,  with  cord,  irons,  etc. 

Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 
Arth.    Oh,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me !  my  eyes  are  out 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 
Hub.      Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 
Arth.    Alas !  what  need  you  be  so  boisterous-rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  heaven  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound! 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  —  drive  these  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb ; 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you, 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 
Hub.      Go,  stand  within ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 
First  Attend. 

I  am  best  pleased  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 1 
Arth.    Alas!  I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend! 
He  hath  a  stem  look,  but  a  gentle  heart: 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 
Hub.  Come  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.    Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Hub.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.    0  Heaven!   that  there  were  but  a  motein  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wandering  hair, 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boisterous  there. 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 
Hub.      Is  this  your  promise?  go  to,  hold  your  tongue. 
Arth.    Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes ; 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue,  —  let  me  not,  Hubert ; 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue, 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes :   oh,  spare  mine  eyes, 
Though  to  no  use  but  still  to  look  on  you! 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold. 
And  would  not  harm  me. 
Hub.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arth.    No,  in  good  sooth ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  grief. 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  used 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  377 

In  undeserved  extremes;  see  else  yourself; 

There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal; 

The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out. 

And  strew'^d  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 
Hub.      But  with  my  breath  1  can  revive  it,  boy. 
Aeth.    An  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush. 

And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert: 

Hub.      Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thine  eye 
For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes; 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy, 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.    Oh,  now  you  look  like  Hubert!  all  this  while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace;  no  more.     Adieu. 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead; 
I  '11  fill  these  dogg'd  spies  with  false  reports : 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless  and  secure, 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 
Will  not  offend  thee.  [Exeunt.'] 

Shakespeare. 


SCENES    FROM    "THE    MERCHANT   OF 

VENICE" 

POETIA.  By  my  troth,  ISTerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary 
of  this  great  world. 

Neeissa.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries 
were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are:  and 
yet  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much 
as  they  that  starve  with  nothing.  It  is  no  mean  happiness 
therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean :  superfluity  comes  sooner 
by  white  hairs  but  competency  lives  longer. 

Portia.    Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Neeissa.    They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

Portia.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good 
to  do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages 
princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own 
instructions:  I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to 
be  done  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teach- 
ing. .  .  .  But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to 
choose  me  a  husband.     0  me,  the  word  "  choose !  "    I  may 


378  SELECTED   READINGS 

neither  choose  whom  I  would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike; 
so  is  the  will  of  a  living  daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a 
dead  father.  Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose 
one,  nor  refuse  none? 

Nerissa.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous;  and  holy  men 
at  their  death  have  good  inspirations ;  therefore,  the  lottery, 
that  he  hath  devised  in  these  three  chests  of  gold,  silver, 
and  lead  (whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning  chooses  you), 
will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly  but  one  who 
shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in  your  affec- 
tion towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that  are  already 
come  ? 

Portia.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them ;  and  as  thou  namest 
them,  I  will  describe  them;  and,  according  to  my  descrip- 
tion, level  at  my  affection. 

Nerissa.    First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

Portia.  Ay,  that's  a  colt  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing 
but  talk  of  his  horse ;  and  he  makes  it  a  great  appropriation 
to  his  own  good  parts  that  he  can  shoe  him  himself. 

Nerissa.    Then  there  is  the  County  Palatine. 

Portia.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown,  as  who  should  say, 
"  If  you  will  not  have  me,  choose."  He  hears  merry  tales, 
and  smiles  not:  I  fear  he  will  prove  the  weeping  philos- 
opher when  he  grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly 
sadness  in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to  a  death's- 
head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these. 
Heaven  defend  me  from  these  two ! 

Nerissa.  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  Monsieur  Le 
Bon? 

Portia.  Heaven  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass 
for  a  man. 

Nerissa.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  Duke  of 
Saxony's  nephew? 

Portia.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober; 
and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  is  drunk:  when 
he  is  best,  he  is  a  little  worse  than  a  man,  and  when  he  is 
worst,  he  is  little  better  than  a  beast.  An  the  worst  fall 
that  ever  fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  without  him. 

Nerissa.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the 
right  casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's 
will,  if  you  should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

Portia.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee, 
set  a  deep  glass  of  Ehenish  wine  on  the  contrai:y  casket j  for. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  379 

if  the  devil  be  within  and  that  temptation  without,  I  know 
he  will  choose  it.  I  will  do  anything,  Nerissa,  ere  I'll  be 
married  to  a  sponge. 

Nerissa.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of 
these  lords :  they  have  acquainted  me  with  their  determina- 
tions ;  which  is,  indeed,  to  return  to  their  home,  and  trouble 
you  with  no  more  suit,  unless  you  may  be  won  by  some  other 
sort  than  3'our  father's  imposition  depending  on  the  caskets. 

Portia.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as 
chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my 
fathers  will.  I  am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reason- 
able, for  there  is  not  one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very 
absence;  and  I  pray  Heaven  grant  them  a  fair  departure. 

Nerissa.  Do  you  not  remember  lady,  in  your  father's 
time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither 
in  company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat? 

Portia.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio:  as  I  think,  he  was  so 
called. 

Nerissa.  True,  madam :  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my 
foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

Portia.  I  remember  him  well,  and  I  remember  him 
worthy  of  thy  praise. 

[Portia  speals  to  ISTerissa,  who  observes  some  one  ap' 
proaching.l 

How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Nerissa.  Lord  Bassanio  has  ta'en  his  oath,  and  comes  to 
his  election. 

Enter  Bassanio 

Bassanio.     I  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe  three  things : 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
"WTiich  casket 't  was  I  chose ;  Next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage;  lastly, 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice, 
Immediately  to  leave  you  and  begone. 

Portia.         To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 

Bassanio.     And  so  have  T  addressed  me.     Fortune  now 
To  my  heart's  hope ! 

Portia.         I  pray  you,  tarry :   pause  a  day  or  two 

Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company :  therefore  forbear  a  while. 


380 


Bassanio. 


Bassanio. 


SELECTED   READINGS 

There 's  something  tells  me,  but  it  is  not  love, 

I  would  not  lose  you;  and  you  know  yourself. 

Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality. 

...  I  could  teach  you 

How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn; 

So  will  I  never  be:  so  may  you  miss  me; 

But  if  you  do  you  '11  make  me  wish  a  sin, 

That  I  had  been  forsworn.  .  .  . 

I  speak  too  long;  but  't  is  to  peize  the  time. 

To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 

To  stay  you  from  election. 

Let  me  choose; 
For  as  I  am  I  live  upon  the  rack. 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

•  ■  •  •  • 

Some  god  direct  my  judgment !    Let  me  see  — 
"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men 

desire." 
.  .  .  That  "  many  "  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show. 
The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice. 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil?     In  religion, 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it  and  approve  it  with  a  text, 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament? 

•  •  •  ■  • 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold. 

Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee. 

"Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he 

deserves  " : 
And  well  said  too;  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune  and  be  honorable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit?  .  .  . 
Oh,  that  estates,  degrees  and  offices 
Were   not    derived   corruptly,    and    that    clear 

honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer! 
How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare! 
How  many  be  commanded  that  command! 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES 


381 


.  .  .  and  how  miicli  honor 

Picked  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 

To  be  new-varnish'd !    "  Much  as  he  deserves/' 

I  '"11  not  assume  desert. 

''  Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all 

he  hath." 
I  '11    none    of    thee,    thou    pale    and    common 

drudge 

[Referring  to  the  gold  and  silver  casJcets.} 
'Tween  man  and  man;  but  thou,  thou  meagre 

lead, 
Which   rather    threatenest   than   dost   promise 

aught. 
Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence; 
And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence! 
Portia,         [Aside.]    How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air ! 

0  love !  be  moderate ;  allay  thy  ecstasy ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit. 

Bassaxio.     "What  find  I  here?     [Opening  casJcet.] 

The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit !    Here  is  the  scroll 

[Reads.^ 
"  You  that  choose  not  by  the  view, 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true! 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you. 
Be  content  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss. 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is. 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss. 
A  gentle  scroll.  —  Fair  lady,  by  your  leave; 
I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive. 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 
Portia.         You  sec  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am :  though  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better;  yet,  for  you 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 
A    thousand    times    more    fair,    ten    thousand 

times 
More  rich ; 


382  SELECTED   READINGS 

That  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account:  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 
Queen  o'er  myself;   and  even  now,  but  now. 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  my- 
self 
Are  yours,  my  lord.     I  give  them  with  this 

ring; 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 
Bassanio.     Madam,  you  have  bereft  me  of  all  words, 
Only  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins; 
.  .  .  But  when  this  ring 
Parts  from   this  finger,  then  parts  life   from 

hence : 
0,  then  be  bold  to  say  Bassanio 's  dead ! 

Shakespeare. 
Arranged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


DIALOGUE   FROM   "MARTIN   CHUZZLEWIT " 

SAIREY  GAMP.  There !  Now  drat  you,  Betsey,  don't  be 
long !  For  I  can't  abear  to  wait,  I  do  assure  you.  To 
wotever  place  I  goes,  I  sticks  to  this  one  mortar,  "  I  'm 
easy  pleased ;  it  is  but  little  as  I  wants ;  but  I  must  have  that 
little  of  the  best,  and  to  the  minit  when  the  clock  strikes, 
else  we  do  not  part  as  I  could  wish,  but  bearin'  malice  in 
our  arts.  There 's  the  little  bell  a-ringing  now.  Betsey 
Prig  — 

Betsey  Prig.  Oh!  You're  a-talkin',  are  you?  "Well,  I 
hope  you  've  got  over  what  you  were  sayin',  for  I  an't  in- 
terested in  it  myself. 

Sairey  G.    My  precious  Betsey,  how  late  you  are! 

Betsey.  If  perwerse  people  goes  off  dead  when  they  is 
least  expected,  it  an't  no  fault  of  mine.  It's  quite  aggra- 
wation  enough  to  b@  made  late  when  one  is  dropping  for 
one's  tea,  without  hearing  on  it  again.  I  know'd  she 
would  n't  have  a  cowcumber ! 

Sairey.  Lord  bless  you,  Betsey  Prig,  your  words  is  true. 
I  quite  forgot. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  383 

Betsey.  [After  drawing  the  ingredients  of  a  salad  from 
Tier  pocket.l  Say  no  more,  Sairey,  but  slice  'em  up  to  be 
eat  now,  in  plenty  of  vinegar.  And  don't  go  a-dropping 
none  of  your  snuff  in  it.  In  gruel,  barley-water,  apple-tea, 
mutton-broth,  and  that,  it  don't  signify.  It  stimulates  a 
patient.    But  I  don't  relish  it  myself. 

Sairey.    Why,  Betsey  Prig !    How  can  you  talk  so  ! 

Betsey.  "Wh^^  an't  your  patients,  wotever  their  diseases 
is,  always  a-sneezin'  their  wery  heads  off,  along  of  your 
snuff? 

Sairey.    And  wot  if  they  are ! 

Betsey.    Nothing  if  they  are,  but  don't  deny  it,  Sairah. 

Sairey.  Who  deniges  of  it?  Who  deniges  of  it,  Betsey? 
Betsey,  who  deniges  of  it? 

Betsey.     Nobody,  if  you  don't,  Sairah. 

Sairey.  Pickled  salmon !  Sugar !  A  fresh  loaf !  Like- 
ways,  a  few  rounds  o'  buttered  toast,  first  cuttin'  off  the 
crust,  in  consequence  of  tender  teeth,  and  not  too  many  of 
'em;  which  Gamp,  himself,  at  one  blow,  being  in  liquor, 
struck  out  four,  two  single  and  two  double,  as  was  took  by 
Mrs.  Harris  for  a  keepsake,  and  is  carried  in  her  pocket  at 
this  present  hour,  along  with  two  cramp  bones,  a  bit  o' 
ginger,  and  a  grater  like  a  blessed  infant's  shoe,  in  tin, 
with  a  little  heel  to  put  the  nutmeg  in. 

Betsey.    Lord,  Sairah !    How 's  old  Chuffey  ? 

Sairey.  He 's  wearing  old  soul,  and  that 's  the  sacred 
truth,  A  worritin',  wexagious  creeter !  I  have  to  shake 
him  by  the  collar  a  dozen  or  two  times  ofting  before  he 
takes  any  notice  at  all.  There's  nothing  like  shaking  to 
revive  'em,  shaking,  or  bite  a  person's  thumbs,  or  turn  their 
fingers  the  wrong  way  and  they  comes  to  wonderful.  Lord 
bless  you ! 

Betsey.    Ah  !  but  what  a  lovely  corpse  he  'd  make ! 

Sairey.  He  's  far  from  it  yet,  my  dear,  takin'  his  slime 
draught  reg'lr  and  ventooring  to  object  when  I  removes  his 
piller,  my  chair  not  being  soft  enough.  Ah !  What  a 
blessed  thing  it  is  —  living  in  a  wale  —  to  be  contented ! 
A^Tiat  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  make  sick  people  happy  in  their 
beds,  and  never  mind  one's  self  as  long  as  one  can  do  a 
service !  I  don't  believe  a  finer  cowcumber  was  ever  grow'd. 
I'm  sure  I  never  see  one.     How's  Leewsome? 

Betsey.  He  looks  a  deal  charminger  than  when  we  arc 
there.     lie  got  out  of  bed  this  morning  back'ards,  cross  as 


384  SEL,ECTED   READINGS 

two  sticks.  I  never  see  sich  a  man.  He  would  n't  have 
been  washed,  if  he  'd  had  his  own  way.  He  said  I  put  soap 
in  his  mouth !  "  Could  n't  you  keep  it  shut  then  ?  "  says  I, 
"  who  do  you  think  's  to  wash  one  I'eater,  and  miss  another, 
and  wear  one's  eyes  out  with  all  manner  of  fine  work  of 
that  description?  If,"  says  I,  "you  wants  to  be  tittivated, 
you  must  pay  accordin'." 

Saieey.  Deuce  take  the  man !  Instead  of  being  grateful 
for  all  our  little  ways.  Oh,  fie  for  shame,  fie  for  shame ! 
If  it  was  n't  for  the  nerve  a  little  sip  of  liquor  gives  me  (I 
never  was  able  to  do  more  than  taste  it),  I  never  could  go 
through  with  what  I  sometimes  have  to  do.  "  Mrs.  Har- 
ris," I  says,  at  the  very  last  case  as  ever  I  acted  in,  which 
it  was  but  a  young  person,  "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says,  "  leave 
the  bottle  on  the  chimley-piece,  and  don't  ask  me  to  take 
none,  but  let  me  put  my  lips  to  it  when  I  am  so  dispoged, 
and  then  I  will  do  what  I  'm  engaged  to  do,  according  to 
the  best  of  my  ability."  "  Mrs.  Gamp,"  she  says  in  answer, 
"  if  ever  there  was  a  sober  creetur  to  be  got  at  eighteen 
pence  a  day  for  working  people,  and  three  and  six  for  gentle- 
folks —  night  watching  being  an  extra  charge  —  you  are 
that  unwalable  person."  "  Mrs.  Harris,"  I  says  to  her, 
"  don't  name  the  charge,  for  if  I  could  afford  to  lay  all  my 
feller  creeturs  out  for  nothink,  I  would  gladly  do  it,  sich 
is  the  love  I  bear  'em.  'No  blessed  creetur  as  I  ever  was 
with  in  trying  times,  and  they  are  many  in  their  numbers, 
ever  brought  it  as  a  charge  against  myself  that  I  was  any- 
thin'  but  mild  and  equal  in  my  spirits.  IsTever  mind  a-con- 
tradicting  of  me,  as  you  seem  to  feel  it  does  you  good, 
ma'am,  I  often  says,  for  well  you  know  that  Sairey  may  be 
trusted  not  to  give  it  back  again,  not  that  she  did,  bless 
her  heart,  her  temper  being  as  sweet  as  her  face,  which  as 
I  often  says  to  her,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Harris,  ma'am !  your  coun- 
tenance is  quite  an  angel's ! "  Which,  but  for  Pimples,  it 
would  be. 

[Sairey  produces  ilie  teapot  and  a  couple  of  wine-gJasses.'\ 

Sairey.  Betsey,  I  will  now  propoge  a  toast.  My  fre- 
quent pardner,  Betsey  Prig ! 

Betsey.  Wliich,  altering  the  name  to  Sairah  Gamp,  I 
drink,  with  love  and  tenderness.  Now,  Sairah,  joining  busi- 
ness with  pleasure,  wot  is  this  case  in  which  you  wants  me? 
7s  it  Mrs.  Harris? 

Sairey.    No,  Betsey  Prig,  it  an't. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  385 

Betsey.    Well !    I  'm  glad  of  that,  at  any  rate. 

Sairet.  Why  should  you  be  glad  of  that,  Betsey?  She 
is  unbeknown  to  j^ou  except  by  hearsay,  why  should  you  be 
glad?  If  you  have  anythink  to  say  contrairy  to  the  char- 
acter of  Mrs.  Harris,  which  well  I  knows  behind  her  back, 
afore  her  face,  or  anywheres,  is  not  to  be  impeaged,  out 
with  it,  Betsey.  I  have  know'd  that  sweetest  and  best  of 
women  ever  since  afore  her  first,  but  I  have  never  know'd 
as  you  had  occagion  to  be  glad,  Betsey,  on  account  of  IMrs. 
Harris  not  requiring  you.  Eequire  she  never  will,  depend 
upon  it,  for  her  constant  words  in  sickness  is,  and  will  be, 
"  Send  for  Sairey !  " 

Betsey.    Well,  it  an't  her,  it  seems.    V^^io  is  it,  then? 

Sairey.  You  have  heard  me  mention,  Betsey,  a  person 
as  I  took  care  on  at  the  time  as  you  and  me  was  pardners 
off  and  on,  in  that  there  fever  at  the  Bull? 

Betsey.     Old  Snuffey? 

Sairey.  Chuffey.  Mr.  Chuffey,  Betsey,  is  weak  in  his 
mind.  Mr.  Chuffey's  friends  has  made  proposals  for  his 
bein'  took  care  on,  and  has  said  to  me,  "  Mrs.  Gamp,  ivill 
you  imdertake  it  ?  We  could  n't  think,"  they  says,  "  of 
trustin'  him  to  nobody  but  you,  for,  Sairey,  you  are  gold 
as  has  passed  through  the  furnage.  Will  you  undertake  it, 
at  your  own  price,  night  and  day,  and  by  your  own  self  ?  " 
"  No,"  I  says,  "  I  will  not.  Do  not  reckon  on  it.  There 
is,"  I  says,  "  but  one  creetur  in  this  world  as  I  would  un- 
dertake on  sech  terms,  and  her  name  is  Harris.  But,"  I 
says,  "  I  am  acquainted  with  a  friend,  whose  name  is  Betsey 
Prig,  that  I  can  recommend,  and  will  assist  me.  Betsey," 
I  says,  "  is  always  to  be  trusted,  under  me,  and  will  be 
guided  as  I  could  desire."  No,  Betsey !  DrinJs  fair,  wotever 
you  do !    Mrs.  Harris,  Betsey  — 

Betsey.  Bother  Mrs.  Harris!  I  don't  believe  there's 
no  sich  a  person! 

Sairey.  AVhat!  you  bage  creetur,  have  I  know'd  Mrs. 
Harris  five  and  thirty  year,  to  be  told  at  last  that  there 
an't  no  sech  a  person  livin' !  Have  I  stood  her  friend  in 
all  her  troubles,  great  and  small,  for  it  to  come  at  last  to 
sech  a  end  as  this,  which  her  own  sweet  picter  hanghig  up 
afore  you  all  the  time,  to  shame  your  Bragian  words !  But 
well  you  may  n't  believe  there 's  no  sech  a  creetur,  for  she 
would  n't  demean  herself  to  look  at  you,  and  often  has  she 
said,  when  I  have  made  mention  of  your  name,  which,  to 

25 


386  SELECTED   READINGS 

my  sinful  sorrow,  I  have  done,  "Wliat,  Sairey  Gamp!  de- 
bage  yourself  to  her!"     Go  along  with  you! 

Betsey.     I  'm  a  goin',  ma'am,  an't  I  ? 

Sairey.    You  had  better,  ma'am. 

Betsey.    Do  you  know  who  you  're  talking  to,  ma'am  ? 

Sairey.  Aperiently  to  Betsey  Prig.  Aperiently  so.  I 
know  her.     No  one  better.     Go  long  with  you! 

Betsey.  And  you  was  a-going  to  take  me  under  you ! 
YoiL  was,  was  you!  Oh,  how  kind!  Why,  deuce  take  your 
impertinence,  what  do  you  mean? 

Sairey.    Go  long  with  you !    I  blush  for  you. 

Betsey.  You  had  better  blush  a  little  for  yourself,  while 
you  are  about  it.  You  and  your  Chutfeys  1  What,  the  poor 
old  creetur  is  n't  mad  enough,  is  n't  he  ?     Aha  ! 

Sairey.  He  'd  very  soon  be  mad  enough,  if  you  had  any- 
think  to  do  with  him. 

Betsey.  And  that's  what  I  was  wanted  for,  is  it?  Yes. 
But  you  '11  find  yourself  deceived.  I  won't  go  near  him. 
We  shall  see  how  you  get  on  without  me.  I  won't  have 
nothink  to  do  with  him. 

Sairey.  You  never  spoke  a  truer  word  than  that!  Go 
along  with  you.  [Exit  Mrs.  Prig,  whose  voice  can  he  heard 
as  she  goes  down  the  stairs,  proclaiming  her  injuries  and 
her  determination  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Chuff ey.~\ 

Sairey.  Wot  I  have  took  from  Betsey  Prig  this  blessed 
night,  no  mortial  creetur  knows!  If  she  had  abuged  me, 
bein'  in  liquor,  which  I  thought  I  smelt  her  wen  she 
come,  but  could  not  so  believe,  not  being  used  myself  —  I 
could  have  bore  it  with  a  thankful  art.  But  the  words  she 
spoke  of  Mrs.  Harris,  lambs  could  not  forgive.  N"o. 
Betsey !   nor  worms  forget !     [Sits  on  table.] 

T")  T  p  XT- "p -M"  Q 

Arranged  hy  Anna  Morgan. 


LITTLE    EM'LY 

From  David  Copperfield 
Scene:   A  Hut 

ROSA   DAETLE.      [Fiercely.]      So  I  have  found  you 
at  last?     (c.)    I  have  come  to  look  at  you.     [Em'ly 
is  afraid  of  her.]     I  have  come  to  see  John  Steerforth's 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  387 

fancy,  —  the  girl  who  ran  away  with  him,  and  is  the  town- 
talk  of  the  commonest  people  of  her  native  place. 

Em'ly.    Have  mercy ! 

EosA.  Stay  there !  If  you  try  to  evade  me,  I  '11  stop 
you,  if  it's  by  the  hair  of  your  head,  and  raise  the  very 
stones  against  you ! 

Em'ly.    Oh  !   spare  me ! 

EosA.  Bah !  He  was  but  a  poor  creature,  to  be  taken  by 
that  delicate  mock-modesty,  and  that  hanging  head ! 

Em'ly.  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't !  Whoever  you  are,  you 
know  my  pitiful  story;  and  for  Heaven's  sake  spare  me,  if 
you  would  be  spared  yourself  ! 

EosA.  If  I  would  be  spared !  What  is  there  in  common 
between  me  and  you,  do  you  think? 

Em'ly.    Nothing!     [Weeps.']     ISTothing  but  our  sex. 

EosA.  [Sharply.]  Sex!  and  that  is  so  strong  a  claim 
preferred  by  one  so  infamous  that,  if  I  had  any  feeling  in 
my  breast  but  scorn  and  abhorrence  of  you,  it  would  freeze 
it  up.     Our  sex !    You  are  an  honor  to  our  sex. 

Em'ly.  I  have  deserved  this  —  but  it's  dreadful! 
[Wrings  her  hands.]  Dear,  dear  lady,  think  what  I  have 
suffered  and  how  I  have  fallen. 

EosA.  [Sneering.]  Do  j'-ou  hope  to  move  me  by  your 
tears?  No  more  than  you  could  charm  me  by  your  smiles, 
you  purchased  slave! 

Em'ly.  Oh,  show  me  some  compassion  or  I  shall  die  — 
die  mad! 

EosA.  That  would  be  no  great  penance  for  your  crime! 
Do  you  know  what  you  have  done?  Do  you  ever  think  of 
the  home  you  have  laid  waste? 

Em'ly.  [Uncovers  her  face  and  stares  around  her  and 
sobs.]  Oh !  Is  there  ever  a  night  or  day  Avhen  I  have  n't 
thought  of  it?  [Throivs  herself  on  her  hnees  supplicating Jy.] 
Has  there  ever  been  a  single  minute,  waking  or  sleeping, 
when  it  has  n't  been  before  me  just  as  it  used  to  be  in  the 
lost  days  when  I  turned  my  back  upon  it?  Oh,  home,  home 
that  I  have  made  desolate  I 

EosA.  Your  home !  This  hovel !  Do  you  imagine  that 
I  bestow  a  thought  on  it,  or  suppose  you  could  do  any  harm 
to  this  low  place  which  money  would  not  pay  for,  and  hand- 
somely? Your  home,  ha,  ha !  You  were  a  part  of  the  trade 
of  your  home,  and  were  bought  and  sold  like  any  other 
vendible  thing  your  people  dealt  in  I 


388  SELECTED   READINGS 

Em'lt.  [IndigTiajitly.']  No,  not  that!  [Rises  pi'oudly.'] 
Say  anything  of  me,  but  don't  visit  my  shame  and  disgrace 
more  than  I  have  done  on  folks  who  are  as  honorable  as  you ! 
Have  some  respect  for  them,  as  you  are  a  lady,  if  you  have 
no  mercy  for  me. 

EosA.  I  spoke  of  liis  home,  where  I  live.  You  are  a 
worthy  cause  of  division  between  lady  mother  and  gentleman 
son ;  of  grief  in  a  house  where  you  would  n't  have  been  ad- 
mitted as  a  kitchen-girl.  A  piece  of  pollution,  picked  up 
from  the  water-side,  to  be  made  much  of,  for  an  hour,  and 
then  tossed  back  to  its  original  place ! 

Em'ly.  No,  no !  [Sorrowfully,  hut  gaining  strength  as 
she  proceeds.']  When  he  first  came  into  my  life  —  oh,  that 
the  day  had  never  dawned  upon  me,  and  he  had  met  me 
carried  to  my  grave !  —  I  had  been  brought  up  as  virtuous 
as  you  or  any  lady,  and  [Very  sadly,  hut  firmly. ]  was  going 
to  be  the  wife  of  as  good  a  man  as  you  or  any  lady  in  the 
world  can  ever  marry !  If  you  live  in  his  house,  and  know 
him,  you  know  perhaps  what  his  power  with  a  weak,  vain 
girl  may  be !  [Rosa  starts  angrily.]  I  don't  defend  my- 
self;  [Shalces  her  head  mournfully.]  but  I  know  well,  and 
he  knows  well,  [Forcibly.]  or  he  will  know  when  he  comes  to 
die,  and  his  mind  is  troubled  with  it,  that  he  used  all  his 
power  to  deceive  me,  and  that  I  [Sohs.]  believed  him,  trusted 
him,  and  —  [Slight  pause.]  loved  him ! 

EosA.  [Angrily.]  You  loved  him?  You?  [Em'ly  draws 
had'  from  her.]  And  tell  that  to  me  with  your  shameful 
lips?  Why  don't  they  whip  these  creatures?  If  I  could 
order  it  to  be  done,  I  would  have  this  girl  whipped  to  death ! 

Em'ly.    Uncle !    Uncle !  why  don't  you  come  ? 

EosA.  Hide  yourself  somewhere!  Let  it  be  in  some  ob- 
scure life  —  or,  better  still,  in  some  obscure  death ! 

Em'ly.  [Sobhing.]  Will  he  never  come?  Oh,  what  shall 
I  do? 

EosA.  Do?  Die!  [Seizing  her  by  the  arm.]  There  are 
doorways  and  dust-heaps  for  such  deaths  and  such  despair 
—  find  one,  and  take  your  flight  to  heaven !  [Casts  her  upon 
the  fl.oor,  and  exit.] 

Dickens. 

Adapted  by  Anna  Morgan. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  389 


DIALOGUE    FROM    "  DAA^D    COPPERFIELD " 

MISS  BETSEY.    Go  away!    Go  along!    No  boys  here! 
David.     If  you   please,   ma'am  —    If   you   please, 
aunt  — 
Miss  B.    Eh? 

David.    If  you  please,  aunt,  I  am  your  nephew. 
Miss  B.     Oh,  Lord  ! 

David.  I  am  David  Copperfield,  and  I  have  been  very 
unhappy  since  my  dear  mama  died.  She  married  Mr. 
Murdstone,  and  I  have  been  slighted,  and  taught  nothing, 
and  put  to  work  not  fit  for  me.  It  made  me  run  away 
to  3'ou.  I  was  robbed  at  first  setting  out,  and  have  walked 
all  the  way,  and  have  never  slept  in  a  bed  since  I  began 
the  journey. 

[il/i'ss  Trotwood  administers  restoratives,  ejaculating  "  Mercy 
on  us!"  at  intervals.    She  rings  the  bell.} 
Miss  B.     Janet,  go  up  stairs,  give  my  compliments  to 
Mr.  Dick,  and  say  I  wish  to  speak  to  him.     \_Administers 
to  David.l 

Enter  Mr.  Dick 

Mr.  Dick,  don't  be  a  fool,  because  nobody  can  be  more 
discreet  than  you  can  when  you  choose.  We  all  know  that. 
So  don't  be  a  fool,  whatever  you  are.  Mr.  Dick,  you  have 
heard  me  mention  David  Copperfield?  Now  don't  pretend 
not  to  have  a  memory,  because  you  and  I  know  bettor. 

Mr.  Dick.  David  Copperfield?  Daui J  Copperfield?  Oh, 
yes,  to  be  sure.     David,  certainly. 

Miss  B.    Well,  this  is  his  boy,  his  son. 

Mr.  Dick,     His  son  ?  David's  son  ?     Indeed ! 

Miss  B.  Yes,  and  he  has  done  a  pretty  piece  of  business. 
He  has  run  away,  and  the  question  I  put  to  you  is,  what 
shall  I  do  with  liim? 

^Ir.  Dick.  Wliat  shall  you  do  with  him?  Oh!  do  with 
him  ? 

Miss  B.    Yes,  come!     I  want  some  very  sound  advice. 

Mr.  Dick.  Why,  if  I  was  you,  I  should  —  I  should  wash 
him  ! 

Miss  B.  Janet,  Mr.  Dick  sets  us  all  right.  Iloiit  the 
bath!  \ Janet  leaves  the  room  and  Miss  Betsey,  looting 
out  of  the  window,  calls.~\ 


390  SELECTED   READINGS 

Miss  B.    Janet !   Donkeys !    [Exeunt  Janet  and  Miss  J?.] 

Mr.  Dick.  Ha  !  Phoebus !  How  does  the  world  go  ?  I  '11 
tell  you  what,  I  shoiild  not  wish  it  to  be  mentioned,  but  it 's 
a  mad  world.  Mad  as  Bedlam,  boy.  You  have  been  to 
school  ? 

David.    Yes,  sir,  for  a  short  time. 

Mr.  Dick.  Do  you  recollect  the  date  when  King  Charles 
the  First  had  his  head  cut  off? 

David.    I  believe,  sir,  that  it  was  in  1649. 

Mr.  Dick.  Well,  so  the  books  say;  but  I  don't  see  how 
that  can  be.  Because,  if  it  was  so  long  ago,  how  could  the 
people  about  him  have  made  that  mistake  of  putting  some 
of  the  trouble  out  of  liis  head,  after  it  was  taken  off,  into 
mine  ?  It 's  very  strange  that  I  never  can  get  that  quite 
right.  But  no  matter,  no  matter !  What  do  you  think  of 
that  for  a  kite? 

David.     It 's  a  beautiful  one. 

Mr.  Dick.  I  made  it.  Do  you  see  this  ?  It 's  all  cov- 
ered with  writing.  There 's  plenty  of  string,  and  when  it 
flies  high,  it  takes  the  facts  a  long  way.  That's  my  man- 
ner of  diffusing  'em.  I  don't  know  where  they  may  come 
down.  I  take  my  chance  of  that.  I  must  go  to  work  now ; 
some  day  we  '11  fly  it.     [Sxit  Mr.  D.  and  enter  Miss  Betsey.'] 

Miss  B.  Well,  child,  what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Dick? 
Come,  be  as  direct  as  you  can,  and  speak  out. 

David.  Is  he  —  is  Mr.  Dick  —  I  ask  because  I  don't 
know,  aunt,  is  he  at  all  out  of  his  mind,  then? 

Miss  B.     Not  a  morsel ! 

David.    Oh,  indeed! 

Miss  B.  If  there 's  anything  in  the  world  that  Mr. 
Dick 's  not,  it 's  that.  He  has  been  called  mad,  and  nice 
people  they  were  M^ho  had  the  audacity  to  call  him  mad. 
But  I  stepped  in  and  made  them  an  offer.  Let  him  have 
his  little  income  and  come  to  live  with  me.  /  am  not  afraid 
of  him.  After  a  good  deal  of  squabbling  I  got  him;  and 
he  has  been  with  me  for  ten  years  and  upwards.  He  is 
the  most  friendly  and  amenable  creature  in  existence;  and 
as  for  advice !  But  nobody  knows  what  that  man's  mind 
is,  except  myself  —  Janet !  Donkeys !  Go  along  with  you ! 
You  have  no  business  here.  How  dare  you  trespass?  Go 
along!     Oh,  you  bold-faced  thing! 

David.     Oh,  aunt!    It  is  Mr.  Murdstone  and  his  sister! 

Miss  B.     I  don't  care  who  it  is!     I  won't  be  trespassed 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  391 

upon.  I  won't  allow  it.  Go  away !  Janet,  turn  him  round. 
Lead  him  of! ! 

David.     Shall  I  go  away,  aunt? 

Miss  B.  Iso,  sir,  certainly  not!  [Enter  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdsione.]  Oh,  I  was  not  aware  at  first  to  whom  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  objecting.  But  I  don't  allow  anybody  to 
ride  over  that  turf.  I  make  no  exceptions.  I  don't  allow 
anybody  to  do  it. 

Miss  Murdstoxe.  Your  regulation  is  rather  awkward  to 
strangers. 

Miss  B.    Is  it? 

Mr.  Murdstone.    Miss  Trotwood! 

Miss  B.  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are  the  Mr.  Murdstone 
who  married  the  widow  of  mv  late  nephew,  David  Copper- 
field? 

Mr.  M.    I  am. 

Miss  B.  You  will  excuse  my  saying,  sir,  that  I  think  it 
would  have  been  a  much  happier  thing  if  you  had  left  that 
poor  child  alone. 

Miss  M.  I  so  far  agree  with  what  Miss  Trotwood  has 
remarked,  that  I  consider  our  lamented  Clara  to  have  been, 
in  all  essential  respects,  a  mere  child ! 

Miss  B.  It's  a  comfort  to  me  and  to  you,  ma'am,  who 
are  getting  on  in  life,  and  are  not  likely  to  be  made  un- 
happy by  our  personal  attractions,  that  nobody  can  say  the 
same  of  us. 

Miss  M.  Xo  doubt!  And  it  certainly  might  have  been 
better  for  my  brother  if  he  had  never  entered  into  such  a 
marriage.     I  have  always  been  of  that  opinion. 

Miss  B.  I  have  no  doubt  you  have.  [Ringing  the 
hell]  Janet,  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Dick,  and  beg  him 
to  come  down.     [Enter  Mr.  Did'.] 

Miss  B.  Mr.  Dick,  an  old  and  intimate  friend,  on  whose 
judgment  I  rely. 

Mr.  M.  I  thought  best,  Miss  Trotwood.  to  follow  this 
unhappy  boy  who  has  run  away  from  his  friends  and  his 
occupation,  to  follow  in  person  instead  of  writing,  as  I 
considered  it  an  act  of  greater  justice  to  myself,  and  per- 
haps of  more  respect  to  you  — 

Miss  B.     Thank  you.     You  need  n't  mind  me. 

Miss  M.  His  appearance  is  perfectly  scandalous  and  dis- 
graceful. 

Me.    M.     JaDfrt   Murdstone,   have   the   goodness   not   to 


392  SELECTED    READINGS 

interrupt  me.  This  unhappy  boy  has  been  the  occasion  of 
much  domestic  trouble.  He  has  a  sullen,  rebellious  spirit; 
a  violent  temper,  and  an  untoward  and  intractable  dispo- 
sition. Both  my  sister  and  myself  have  endeavored  to  cor- 
rect his  vices,  but  ineffectually.  And  I  have  felt  —  we  both 
have  felt,  I  may  say,  my  sister  being  fully  in  my  confidence 

—  that  it  is  right  you  should  receive  this  grave  and  dis- 
passionate assurance  from  our  lips. 

Miss  M,  It  can  hardly  be  necessary  for  me  to  confirm 
anything  stated  by  my  brother,  but  I  beg  to  remark  that,  of 
all  the  boys  in  the  world,  I  believe  this  is  the  worst  boy. 

Miss  B.     Strong! 

Miss  M.    But  not  too  strong  for  the  facts. 

Miss  B.     Ha!     Well,  sir? 

Mk.  M.     I  am  here.  Miss  Trotwood,  to  take  David  back 

—  to  take  him  back  unconditionally;  to  dispose  of  him  as 
I  think  proper,  and  to  deal  with  him  as  I  thing  right.  I 
am  not  here  to  make  any  promise,  or  give  a  pledge  to  any- 
body. You  may  have  some  idea  of  abetting  him  in  his 
running  away.  Your  manner,  which  I  must  say  does  not 
seem  intended  to  propitiate,  induces  me  to  think  it  possible. 
If  you  step  in  between  him  and  me  now,  you  must  step  in, 
Miss  Trotwood,  forever.  I  cannot  trifle  or  be  trifled  with. 
Is  he  ready  to  go? 

Miss  B.  Well,  ma'am,  have  j^ou  got  anytliing  to  re- 
mark? 

Miss  M.  Indeed,  Miss  Trotwood,  all  that  I  could  say 
has  been  so  well  said  by  my  brother  that  I  have  nothing  to 
add  except  my  thanks  for  your  politeness,  I  am  sure. 

Miss  B.  And  what  does  the  boy  say?  Are  you  ready  to 
go,  David? 

David.  Oh,  no,  no.  Please,  aunt,  don't  let  me  go.  They 
always  hated  me.  Please  dear,  dear  aunt,  protect  me,  for 
my  father's  sake. 

Miss  B.    Mr.  Dick,  what  shall  I  do  with  this  child? 

Mr.  Dick.  Have  him  measured  for  a  suit  of  clothes 
directly. 

Miss  B.  Mr.  Dick,  give  me  your  hand,  for  your  common 
sense  is  invaluable.  [To  Mr.  M.]  You  can  go  when  you 
like ;  I  '11  take  my  chance  with  the  boy.  If  he  is  all  you  say 
he  is,  at  least  I  can  do  as  much  for  him,  then,  as  you  have 
done.    But  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it! 

Mr.  M.    Miss  Trotwood,  if  you  were  a  gentleman  — 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  393 

Miss  B.    Bali !    Stuff  and  nonsense !     Don't  talk  to  me ! 

Miss  M.     How  exquisitely  polite  !     Overpowering,  really ! 

Miss  B.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  life 
^•ou  must  have  led  your  poor,  unhappy,  misdirected  wife? 
Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  a  woful  day  it  was  for  the 
soft  little  creature  when  you  first  came  in  her  way  —  smirk- 
ing and  making  eyes  at  her,  I  '11  be  bound,  as  if  you 
could  n't  say  boh  !     to  a  goose  ? 

Miss  M.    I  never  heard  anything  so  elegant! 

Miss  B.  Do  you  think  I  can't  understand  you  as  well  as 
if  I  had  seen  you,  now  that  I  do  see  you  and  hear  you, 
which  I  tell  you  candidly,  is  anything  but  a  pleasure  to  me  ? 
Ugh !    Get  along  with  you,  do ! 

Miss  M.  I  never  heard  anything  like  this  person  in  my 
life !  It  is  either  insanity  or  intoxication,  and  my  suspicion 
is,  that  it 's  intoxication ! 

Miss  B,  Mr.  Murdstone,  you  were  a  t}Tant  and  you 
broke  her  heart.  There  is  truth  for  your  comfort,  however 
you  like  it.  And  you  and  your  instruments  may  make  the 
most  of  it. 

Miss  M.  Allow  me  to  inquire.  Miss  Trotwood,  whom  you 
are  pleased  to  call  in  a  choice  of  words  in  which  I  am  not 
experienced,  my  brother's  instruments? 

Miss  B.     It  was  clear  enough  that  the  poor,  soft,  little 

thing  would  marry  somebody  at  some  time  or  other,  but  I 

did  hope  it  wouldn't  have  been  as  bad  as  it  turned  out. 

Ay,  ay !     You  need  n't  wince !     I  know  it 's  true  without 

that !    Good-day,  sir,  and  good-bye !    Good-day  to  you,  ma'am. 

Let  me  see  you  ride  a  donkey  over  my  green  again,  and  as 

sure  as  you  have  a  head  upon  your  shoulders,  I  '11  knock  your 

bonnet  off,  and  tread  upon  it. 

Dickens. 
Adapted  by  Anna  Morgan. 


DIALOGUE    FROM    "NICHOLAS    NICKLEBY " 

Mrs.  N"ickleby  and  the  Mad  Neighbor 

MiiS.  N.  Ah,  if  Nicholas  knew  what  his  poor,  dear 
papa  suffered  before  we  were  engaged,  when  I  used 
to  hate  him,  he  would  have  a  little  more  feeling.  Shall  I 
ever  forget  the  morning  I  looked  scornfully  at  him  when 
he  offered   to   carr}^   my   parasol?     Or  that   night  when   I 


394  SELECTED   READINGS 

frowned  at  him  ?  It  was  a  mercy  he  did  n't  emigrate.  It 
very  nearly  drove  him  to  it. 

Kate.    Mama,  before  you  were  married  — 

Mrs.  N.  Dear  me,  Kate,  what  in  the  name  of  goodness 
graciousness  makes  you  fly  off  to  the  time  before  I  was 
married?  You  don't  seem  to  take  the  smallest  interest  in 
the  garden. 

Kate.    Oh,  you  know  that  I  do ! 

Mrs.  N.  I  scarcely  ever  hear  you  speak  of  it,  my  dear. 
What  was  it  you  were  going  to  say? 

Kate.     About  what,  mama? 

Mrs.  N".  Lor,  Kate,  my  dear,  why,  you  're  asleep  or 
stupid.     About  the  time  before  I  was  married. 

Kate.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  I  was  going  to  ask,  mama, 
before  you  were  married,  had  vou  manv  suitors? 

Mrs.  N.  I  had  indeed,  my  dear,  not  including  your  poor 
papa,  or  a  young  gentleman  who  used  to  go  at  that  time 
to  the  same  dancing-school  and  who  would  send  gold 
watches  and  gold  bracelets  to  our  house  in  gilt-edged  paper 
(which  was  always  returned),  and  who  afterwards  unfor- 
tunately went  out  to  Botany  Bay  in  a  cadet  ship  —  a  con- 
vict ship,  I  mean  —  and  escaped  into  the  bush  and  killed 
sheep  and  was  going  to  be  hung,  only  he  accidentally 
choked  himself  and  the  Government  pardoned  him.  AYhen 
I  was  not  nearly  as  old  as  j'OU,  my  dear,  there  was  a  young 
gentleman  who  sat  next  us  at  church  who  used,  almost  every 
Sunda}^,  to  cut  my  name  in  large  letters  in  the  front  of  his 
pew  while  the  sermon  was  going  on.  It  was  gratifying,  of 
course,  naturally  so,  but  still  it  was  an  annoyance,  because 
the  pew  was  in  a  very  conspicuous  place,  and  he  was  several 
times  publicly  taken  out  by  the  beadle  for  doing  it.  Then 
there  was  young  Lukin,  —  Mogely  —  Tipslark  —  Cabbery 
—  Smif  ser  — 

Neighbor.     Hem ! 

Kate.    Mama,  what  was  that? 

Mrs.  N".  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,  unless  it  was  the  gen- 
tleman belonging  to  the  next  house,  I  don't  know  what  it 
could  possibly  — 

Neighbor.    Hem ! 

Mrs.  N.  I  understand  it  now,  my  dear.  Don't  be 
alarmed,  my  love,  it 's  not  directed  to  you,  and  it 's  not  in- 
tended to  frighten  anybody.  Let  us  give  everybody  their 
due,  Kate.    I  am  bound  to  say  that. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  395 

Kate.    Wliat  do  you  mean,  mama? 

Mrs.  N.  Don't  be  flurried,  my  dear,  for  you  see  I  'm 
not,  and  if  it  would  be  excusable  in  anybody  to  be  flurried, 
it  certainly  would  —  under  all  circumstances  —  be  excusa- 
ble in  me,  but  I  am  not,  Kate,  —  not  at  all. 

Kate.     It  seems  designed  to  attract  our  attention,  mama. 

]\Irs.  N.  It  is  designed  to  attract  our  attention,  my 
Jear  —  at  least  —  to  attract  the  attention  of  one  of  us. 
Hem  !     You  need  n't  be  at  all  uneasy,  my  dear. 

[Had  neighbor  appears  from  behind  the  garden  wall.l 

Kate.  Mama!  Why  do  you  stop?  Why  do  you  lose  an 
instant  ?    Mama,  pray  come  in  ! 

Mrs.  N.  Kate,  my  dear,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish  ?  I  'm 
ashamed  of  you.  How  do  you  suppose  you  are  ever  to  get 
through  life,  if  3^ou  're  such  a  coward  as  this  ?  Wliat  do  you 
want,  sir  ?    How  dare  you  look  into  this  garden  ? 

Neighbor.    Queen  of  my  soul,  this  goblet  sip ! 

Mrs.  N.     Nonsense,  sir.    Kate,  my  love,  pray  be  quiet. 

Neighbor.  Won't  you  sip  the  goblet?  Oh,  do  sip  the 
goblet ! 

Mrs.  N.  I  shall  not  consent  to  anything  of  the  kind, 
sir.    Pray  begone ! 

Neighbor.  W^hy  is  it  that  beauty  is  always  obdurate, 
even  when  admiration  is  as  honorable  and  respectful  as 
mine?  Is  it  owing  to  the  bees,  who,  when  the  honey  season 
is  over,  and  they  are  supposed  to  have  been  killed  with 
brimstone,  in  reality  fly  to  Barbary  and  lull  the  captive 
Moors  to  sleep  with  their  drowsy  songs?  Or  is  it  in  con- 
sequence of  the  statue  at  Charing  Cross  having  been  lately 
seen,  on  the  Stock  Exchange  at  midnight,  walking  arm-in- 
arra  with  the  pump  from  Aldgate  in  a  riding  habit? 

Kate.     Mama,  do  you  hear  him? 

Mrs.  N.  Hush,  my  dear,  he  is  very  polite,  and  I  think 
that  was  a  quotation  from  the  poets.  Pray  don't  worry  me 
go  —  you  '11  pinch  my  arm  black  and  blue.    Go  away,  sir ! 

Neighbor.     Quite  away?     Oh,  quite  away? 

Mrs.  N.  Yes,  certainly.  You  have  no  business  here. 
This  is  private  property  here,  sir;  you  ought  to  know  that. 

Neighbor.  I  do  know  that  this  is  a  sacred  and  enchanted 
spot,  where  the  most  divine  charms  M^aft  mellifluousness 
over  the  neighbors'  gardens,  and  force  the  fruit  and  vege- 
tables into  premature  existence.  That  fact  I  am  acquainted 
with.     But   will   you   permit  me,   fairest  creature,   to  ask 


396  SELECTED   READINGS 

you  one  question,  in  the  absence  of  the  planet  Venus,  who  has 
gone  on  business  to  the  Horse  Guards,  and  would  otherwise 

—  jealous  of  your  superior  charms  —  interpose  between  us  ? 
Mrs.  N.     Kate,  it's  very  awkward,  positively.     I  really 

don't  know  what  to  say  to  this  gentleman.  One  ought  to 
be  civil,  you  know. 

Kate.  Dear  mama,  don't  say  a  word  to  him,  but  let  us 
run  away  as  fast  as  we  can,  and  shut  ourselves  up  until  my 
brother  comes  home. 

Mes.  jST.  If  you  will  conduct  yourself,  sir,  like  the  gen- 
tleman I  should  imagine  you  to  be,  from  your  language  and 

—  and  —  appearance  (quite  the  counterpart  of  your  dear 
grandpapa,  Kate,  my  dear,  in  his  best  days),  and  will  put 
your  question  to  me  in  plain  words,  I  will  answer  it. 

Neighbor.    The  question  is  —  Are  you  a  princess  ? 

Mrs.  N.    You  are  mocking  me,  sir. 

Neighbor.     No,  but  are  you? 

Mrs.  N,    You  know  that  I  am  not,  sir. 

Neighbor.  Then  are  you  any  relation  to  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury?  or  to  the  Pope  of  Eome?  or  the  Speaker  of 
the  House  of  Commons?  Forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong,  but  I 
was  told  you  were  niece  to  the  Commissioners  of  Paving, 
and  daughter-in-law  to  the  Lord  Mayor  and  Court  of  Com- 
mon Council,  which  would  account  for  your  relationship  to 
all  three. 

Mrs.  N.  Whoever  has  spread  such  reports,  sir,  has  taken 
great  liberties  with  my  name,  and  one  which  I  am  sure  my 
son  Nicholas,  if  he  was  aware  of  it,  would  not  allow  for  an 
instant.    The  idea!    Niece  to  the  Commissioners  of  Paving. 

Kate.  Pray,  mama,  come  away ! 

Mrs.  N.  Pray,  mama !  Nonsense,  Kate,  but  that 's  just 
the  way.  If  they  had  said  I  was  niece  to  a  piping  bullfinch, 
what  would  you  care  ?  But  I  have  no  sympathy  —  I  don't 
expect  it,  that 's  one  thing. 

Neighbor.  Tears!  Catch  the  crystal  globules  —  catch 
'em  —  bottle  'em  —  cork  'em  tight  —  put  sealing  wax  on 
the  top  —  seal  'em  with  Cupid  —  label  'em  "  Best  Quality  " 
and  stow  'em  away  in  the  fourteen  binn,  with  a  bar  of  iron 
on  the  top  to  keep  the  thunder  off!  Cormoran  and  Blun- 
derbore !  She  is  come !  Where  are  grace,  beauty  and 
blandishments  like  these?  In  the  Empress  of  Madagascar? 
No.  In  the  Queen  of  Diamonds?  No.  Melt  all  these  down 
into  one  with  the  three  graces,  the  nine  Muses,  and  fourteen 


SCENES   AND    DIALOGUES  397 

biscuit-makers'  daughters  from  Oxford  Street,  and  make  a 
woman  half  as  lovely.  Pho  !  I  defy  3'ou  !  No.  In  Mrs.  Row- 
land, who  every  morning  bathes  in  Kalydor  for  nothing? 

Beautiful  madam,  if  I  have  made  any  mistake  with  re- 
gard to  your  family  or  connections,  I  humbly  beseech  you 
to  pardon  me.  If  I  supposed  you  to  be  related  to  Foreign 
Powers  or  Native  Boards,  it  is  because  you  have  a  manner, 
a  carriage,  a  dignity,  which  you  will  excuse  my  saying  that 
none  but  yourself  (with  the  single  exception,  perhaps,  of 
the  Tragic  Muse  when  playing  extemporaneously  on  the 
barrel  organ  before  the  East  India  Company)  can  parallel. 
I  am  not  a  youth,  ma'am,  as  you  see;  and  although  beings 
like  you  can  never  grow  old,  I  venture  to  presume  that  we 
are  fitted  for  each  other. 

Mrs.  N.    Really,  Kate,  my  love ! 

Neighbor.  I  have  estates,  ma'am,  jewels,  lighthouses, 
fish-ponds,  a  whalery  of  my  own  in  the  North  Sea,  and 
several  oyster-beds  of  great  profit  in  the  Pacific  Ocean.  If 
you  will  have  the  kindness  to  step  down  to  the  Royal  Ex- 
change and  to  take  the  cocked  hat  off  the  stoutest  beadle's 
head,  you  will  find  my  card  in  the  lining  of  the  crown, 
wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  blue  paper.  My  walking  stick  is 
also  to  be  seen  on  application  to  the  chaplain  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  who  is  strictly  forbidden  to  take  any  money 
for  showing  it.  I  have  enemies  about  me,  ma'am,  who  at- 
tack me  on  all  occasions  and  wish  to  secure  my  property.  If 
you  bless  me  with  your  hand  and  heart,  you  can  apply  to 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  or  call  out  the  military  if  necessary, 
—  sending  my  toothpick  to  the  Commander-in-Chief  will  be 
sufficient  —  and  so  clear  the  house  of  them  before  the  cere- 
mony is  performed.  After  that,  love,  bliss,  and  rapture ;  rap- 
ture, love,  and  bliss.    Be  mine,  be  mine!    Bo  mine,  be  mine! 

Mrs.  N.  Kate,  my  dear,  I  have  hardly  the  power  to 
speak ;  but  it  is  necessary  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties  that 
this  matter  should  be  set  at  rest  for  ever. 

Kate.  Surely  there  is  no  necessity  for  you  to  say  one 
word,  mama? 

Mrs.  N.  You  will  allow  me,  my  dear,  if  you  please,  to 
judge  for  myself. 

Neighbor.     Be  mine !     Be  mine  ! 

Mrs.  N.  It  can  scarcely  be  expected,  sir,  that  I  should 
tell  a  stranger  whether  I  feel  flattered  and  obliged  by  such 
proposals  or  not.   They  certainly  are  made  under  very  singular 


398  SELECTED   READINGS 

circumstances ;  still,  at  the  same  time,  as  far  as  it  goes,  and 
to  a  certain  extent,  of  course,  they  must  be  gratifying  and 
agreeable  to  one's  feelings. 

Neighbor.    Be  mine !   mine !    Gog  and  Magog,  Gog  and 
Magog.    Be  mine !    Be  mine ! 

Mrs.  N.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  me  to  say,  sir,  and  I  'm 
sure  you  '11  see  the  propriety  of  taking  an  answer  and  going 
away  —  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  remain  a  widow, 
and  to  devote  myself  to  my  children.  You  may  not  suppose 
I  am  the  mother  of  two  children  —  indeed,  many  people 
have  doubted  it,  and  said  that  nothing  on  earth  could 
ever  make  'em  believe  it  possible  —  but  it  is  the  case,  and 
they  are  both  grown  up.  We  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you 
for  a  neighbor  —  very  glad ;  delighted,  I  'm  sure  —  but  in 
any  other  character  it's  quite  impossible,  quite.  As  to  my 
being  young  enough  to  marry  again,  that  perhaps  may  be 
so,  or  it  may  not  be ;  but  I  could  n't  think  of  it  for  an  in- 
stant, not  on  any  account  whatever.  I  said  I  never  would, 
and  I  never  will.  It 's  a  very  painful  thing  to  have  to  re- 
ject proposals,  and  I  would  much  rather  that  none  were 
made ;  at  the  same  time,  this  is  the  answer  that  I  determined 
long  ago  to  make,  and  this  is  the  answer  I  shall  always  give. 
[jT/ie  mad  neighbor  is  hy  this  time  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  and 
at  this  point  in  the  conversation  hands  appear  and  clasp 
his  anlcles.^ 

Neighbor.    It's  you,  is  it? 

Gardener.    Yes,  it 's  me. 

Neighbor.    How  's  the  Emperor  of  Tartary  ? 

Gardener.    Oh !  he 's  much  the  same  as  usual ;  no  better 
and  no  worse. 

Neighbor.     The  young  Prince  of  China,  is  he  reconciled 
to  his  father-in-law,  the  great  potato  salesman  ? 

Gardener.    No,  and  he  says  he  never  will  be,  that 's  more. 

Neighbor.     If  that 's  the  case,  perhaps  I  'd  better  come 
down. 

Gardener.    "Well,  I  think  you  had,  perhaps. 
[The  mad  neighbor  disappears  behind  the  wall,  his  place 
being  presently  taken  by  the  gardener.'] 

Gardener.    Beg  your  pardon,  ladies.    Has  he  been  mak- 
ing love  to  either  of  you? 

Kate.    Yes. 

Gardener.    Ah,  he  always  will,  jou  know.    Nothing  will 
prevent  his  making  love. 


SCENES  AND   DIALOGUES  399 

Kate.  I  need  not  ask  if  he  is  out  of  his  mind,  poor 
creature. 

Gardener.    "Why,  no.    That 's  pretty  plain,  that  is. 

Kate.     Has  he  been  long  so? 

Gardener.    A  long  while. 

Kate.    And  is  there  no  hope  for  him? 

Gardener.  Xot  a  bit,  and  don't  deserve  to  be.  He  's  a 
deal  pleasanter  without  his  senses  than  with  'em.  He  was 
the  cruellest,  wickedest,  out-and-outerest  old  flint  that  ever 
drawed  breath. 

Kate.    Indeed ! 

Gardener.  By  George !  I  never  came  across  such  a  vaga- 
bond, and  my  mate  says  the  same.  Broke  his  poor  wife's 
heart,  turned  his  daughters  out  of  the  doors,  drove  his  sons 
into  the  streets  —  it  was  a  blessing  he  went  mad  at  last, 
through  evil  tempers,  and  covetousness,  and  selfishness,  and 
guzzling,  and  drinking,  or  he  'd  have  drove  many  others  so. 
Hope  for  him,  an  old  rip !  There  is  n't  too  much  hope  go- 
ing, but  I  '11  bet  a  crown  that  what  there  is,  is  saved  for  more 
deserving  chaps  than  him,  any  how.  [Exit  gardener.] 

Kate.     Poor  creature ! 

Mrs.  N.  Ah,  poor  indeed !  It 's  shameful  that  such  things 
should  be  allowed  —  shameful ! 

Kate.  How  can  they  be  helped,  mama?  The  infirmities 
of  nature  — 

Mrs.  N.  Nature !  What !  Do  you  suppose  this  poor  gen- 
tleman is  out  of  his  mind  ?  He  is  nothing  of  the  kind  and  I 
am  surprised  you  can  be  so  imposed  upon.  He  may  be  a 
little  odd  and  flighty,  perhaps,  —  many  of  us  are  that ;  but 
downright  mad !  And  express  himself  as  he  does,  respect- 
fully and  in  quite  poetical  language,  and  making  offers  with 
so  much  thought  and  care  and  prudence  —  not  as  if  he  ran 
into  the  streets  and  went  down  upon  his  knees  to  the  first 
chit  of  a  girl  he  met,  as  a  madman  would !  No,  no,  Kate  — 
there 's  a  great  deal  too  much  method  in  his  madness ;  de- 
pend upon  that,  my  dear. 

[Mad  neighbor  appears  again  from  behind  the  tvall.l 

Neighbor.    Avaunt  —  Cat ! 

Mrs.  X.    Sir! 

Neighbor.  Cat!  Puss,  Kit,  Tit,  Grimalkin,  Tabby, 
Brindle  —  Whoosh ! 

Dickens. 

Arranged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


400  SELECTED   READINGS 


DIALOGUE   FROM  "THE   PICKWICK  PAPERS" 

SAM  WELLEE.    My  fayther,  ven  will  he  be  here? 
Barmaid.    He  won't  be  here  this  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  or  more. 

Sam.    Wery  good,  my  dear.    Let  me  have  nine  penn'orth 

o'  brandy  and  water  luke,  and  the  inkstand,  will  you,  miss? 

l^Sam  writes  painfully  for  a  few  moments,  then  rings  for 

the  barmaid.    She  brings  him  another  glass  of  brandy, 

and  then  —  ] 

Barmaid.  There 's  a  gentleman  asking  for  Doctors'  Com- 
mons.   Could  you  tell  me  where  they  are? 

Sam.  You  ought  to  know  that,  my  dear.  Low  archway 
on  the  carriage  side,  bookseller's  at  one  corner,  hotel  on  the 
other,  and  two  porters  in  the  middle  as  touts  for  licenses. 

Barmaid.    Touts  for  licenses? 

Sam.  Don't  pretend,  my  dear,  that  you  don't  know  wot 
that  means !  A  bad  lot  they  is,  too.  They  put  things  into 
old  gen'lem'ns'  heads  as  they  never  dreamed  of.  My  father 
was  a  coachman  and  his  missus  died  and  leaves  him  four 
hundred  pounds.  Down  he  goes  to  the  Commons  to  see  the 
lawyer  and  draw  the  blunt  —  wery  smart  —  top  boots  on  — 
nosegay  in  his  buttonhole — broad-brimmed  tile — green  shawl 
—  quite  the  gen'lem'n.  Goes  through  the  archvay,  thinking 
how  he  should  inwest  the  money  —  up  comes  a  touter,  touches 
his  hat,  "  License,  sir  ?  "  "  What  license,"  says  my  father. 
"  Marriage  license,"  says  the  touter.  ''  Dash  my  veskit,"  says 
my  father,  "  I  never  thought  o'  that.  Damme,  I  'm  too  old, 
b'sides  I  'm  a  many  sizes  too  large."  "  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  says 
the  touter.  "  This  way,  sir,  this  way ! "  and,  sure  enough, 
my  father  walks  arter  him  like  a  tame  monkey  behind  the 
horgan.  "  What 's  the  lady 's  name  ?  "  says  the  lawyer. 
"  Blessed  if  I  know,  no  more  nor  you  do,"  says  my  father, 
"  but  put  down  Mrs.  Clarke,  Susan  Clarke,  Markis  O'Granby, 
Dorking;  she'll  have  me  if  I  ask,  I  des-say."  The  license 
was  made  out  and  she  did  have  him,  and  wot 's  more  she 's 
got  him  now,  and  I  never  had  any  of  the  four  hundred  pounds, 
worse  luck.    Wot  was  it  you  wanted  to  know,  my  dear? 

Barmaid.    Here 's  the  old  gentleman. 

Tony  Weller.    Veil,  Sammy. 

Sam.  Veil,  my  Prooshan  Blue.  What 's  the  last  bulletin 
about  mother-in-law  ? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  401 

ToxT.  Mrs.  "Weller  passed  a  wery  good  night,  but  is  un- 
common perwerse  and  unpleasant  this  mornin',  —  signed 
upon  oath,  S.  AYeller,  Esq.,  Senior.  That's  the  last  vun  as 
was  issued,  Sammv. 

Sam.    No  better  yet  ? 

ToxY.  All  the  symptoms  aggerawated.  Vy,  I  tell  you 
what,  Samm}',  there  never  was  a  nicer  woman  as  a  widder 
than  that  'ere  second  wentur  o'  mine  —  a  sweet  creetur  she 
was,  Sammy;  all  I  can  say  on  her  now  is,  that  as  she  was 
such  an  uncommon  pleasant  widder,  it 's  a  great  pity  she 
ever  changed  her  condition.    She  don't  act  as  a  vife,  Sammy. 

Sam.    Don't  she,  though  ? 

ToxY.  I  've  done  it  once  too  often,  Sammy ;  I  've  done 
it  once  too  often.  Take  example  by  your  father,  my  boy, 
and  be  wery  careful  o'  widders  all  your  life,  specially  if 
they  've  kept  a  public  house,  Sammy.  She 's  been  gettin' 
rayther  in  the  Methodistical  order  lately,  Sammy ;  and  she 's 
uncommon  pious,  to  be  sure.  She's  too  good  a  creetur  for 
me.    I  feel  I  don't  deserve  her. 

Sam.    Ah,  that's  wery  self-denyin'  o'  you. 

ToxY.  Wery.  She's  got  hold  o'  some  inwention  for 
grown-up  people  being  born  again,  Sammy  —  the  new  birth, 
I  thinks  they  calls  it.  I  should  wery  much  like  to  see  your 
mother-in-law  born  agin.  Would  n't  I  put  her  out  to  nurse ! 
What  do  you  think  them  women  does  t'  other  day  ?  What 
do  you  think  thev  does,  f  other  dav,  Sammy? 

Sam.    Don't  know.    A^Tiat? 

Tony.  Goes  and  gets  up  a  grand  tea-drinkin'  for  a  feller 
they  calls  their  shepherd.  I  dresses  myself  out  wery  smart, 
and  off  I  goes  vith  the  old  'ooman,  and  up  we  valks  into  a 
furst  floor  where  there  was  tea  things  for  thirty  and  a  lot  of 
old  women  as  begins  whisperin'  to  one  another  as  if  they  'd 
never  seen  a  rayther  stout  gen'lem'n  of  eight-and-fifty  afore. 
By  and  bye,  there  comes  a  great  bustle  and  a  lanky  chap  witli 
a  red  nose,  called  Stiggins,  rushes  in,  and  sings  out  "  TTere 
is  a  shepherd  a-comin'  to  visit  his  faithful  flock  " ;  and  in 
comes  a  fat  chap  a-smilin'  avay  like  clock-work.  "The  kiss 
of  peace,"  says  the  shepherd,  and  then  he  kissed  the  women 
all  round,  and  ven  he  'd  done,  the  man  with  the  red  nose 
began.  I  was  just  a-thinkin'  whether  I  had  n't  better  begin 
too,  ven  in  comes  the  tea.  At  it  they  went,  tooth  and  nail ; 
I  wish  you  could  have  scon  the  shepherd  walkin'  into  the  ham 
and  muffins.    I  never  see  such  a  chap  to  eat  and  drink,  never. 

26 


402  SELECTED   READINGS 

The  red-nosed  man  war  n't  by  no  means  the  sort  of  person 
you'd  like  to  grub  by  contract,  but  he  was  nothin'  to  the 
shepherd.  Then  the  shepherd  began  to  preach,  and  wery 
well  he  did  it,  considerin'  how  heavy  them  muffins  must  have 
lied  on  his  chest.  Presently  they  all  began  to  groan,  and  he 
says,  "  Where  is  the  sinner  ?  Where  is  the  mis'rable  sinner  ?  " 
"  My  friend,"  says  I,  "  did  you  apply  that  e're  obserwation 
to  me  ?  "  'Stead  of  beggin'  my  pardon,  as  any  gen'lem'n 
would  ha'  done,  he  called  me  a  wessel,  Sammy,  a  wessel  of 
wrath.  So  my  blood  being  reg'larly  up,  I  give  him  two  or 
three  for  himself  and  walked  off.  I  wish  you  could  ha'  heard 
how  the  women  screamed  ven  they  picked  up  the  shepherd 
from  under  the  table.  This  here  red-nosed  man,  Sammy, 
visits  your  mother-in-law  vith  a  kindness  and  constancy  as 
I  never  see  equalled.  He 's  sech  a  friend  o'  the  family,  that 
ven  he  's  away  from  us,  he  can't  be  comfortable  unless  he  has 
somethin'  to  remember  us  by. 

Sam.  And  I  'd  give  him  somethin'  as  'ud  turpentine  and 
bees'-wax  his  memory  for  the  next  ten  years  or  so,  if  I  wos 
you. 

Tony.  Stop  a  minute.  I  wos  a-goin'  to  say,  he  always 
brings  now  a  flat  bottle  as  holHs  about  a  pint  and  a  half  and 
fills  it  with  pineapple  rum  afore  he  goes  avay. 

Sam.    And  empties  it  afore  he  comes  back,  I  s'pose  ? 

Tony.  Clean !  never  leaves  nothin'  in  it  but  the  cork  and 
the  smell. 

Sam.  I  've  only  got  to  say  this  here,  that  if  I  was  the 
properiator  o'  the  Markis  o'  Granby,  and  that  'ere  Stiggins 
came  and  sat  in  my  bar  — 

Tony.    What?    What? 

Sam.    I  'd  pison  his  rum  and  water. 

Tony.    No  !  would  you  raly,  Sammy  ?  would  you,  though  ? 

Sam.  I  would.  I  would  n't  be  too  hard  on  him  at  first. 
I  'd  drop  just  him  into  the  water-butt,  and  put  the  lid  on ; 
and  if  I  found  he  was  insensible  to  kindness,  I  'd  try  the  other 
persvasion.  [*S'am  tahes  a  drink  of  ale.^ 

Tony.  Wery  good  power  o'  suction,  Sammy.  You  'd  ha' 
made  a  uncommon  fine  oyster,  Sammy,  if  you  'd  been  born  in 
that  station  o'  life. 

Sam,  Yes,  I  des-say  I  should  ha'  managed  to  pick  up  a 
respectable  livin'. 

Tony.  I  'm  wery  sorry  to  hear  as  you  let  yourself  be 
gammoned  by  that  'ere  mulberry  man.    I  always  thought,  up 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  403 

to  three  days  ago,  that  the  names  of  Veller  and  gammon 
could  never  come  in  contact,  Sammy,  never. 

Sam.    Always  exceptin'  the  case  of  a  widder,  of  course. 

ToxT.  Widders,  Sammj',  are  'ceptions  to  ev'ry  rule.  I 
have  heerd  how  many  ord'nary  women  one  widder 's  equal  to, 
in  pint  o'  comin'  over  you.  I  think  it 's  five-and-twenty,  but 
I  don't  rightly  know  vether  it  ain't  more. 

Sam.     Well,  that's  pretty  well. 

ToxT.  Besides,  that 's  a  wery  different  thing.  You  know 
what  the  counsel  said,  Sammy,  as  defended  the  gen'lem'n  as 
beat  his  wife  with  a  poker,  venever  he  got  jolly.  "  And  arter 
all,  my  lord,"  says  he,  "  it 's  a  amiable  weakness."  So  I 
says  respectin'  widders,  Sammy,  and  so  you  '11  say  ven  you 
gets  as  old  as  me.  Vy,  your  governor,  Sammy,  he 's  not  free 
from  it.  He's  going  to  be  tried  to-morrow  for  breach  of 
promise,  ain't  he  ?  and  ain't  it  a  widder  ?  But  wot 's  that 
you  're  a-doin'  of  —  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  difficulties, 
—  eh,  Sammy  ? 

Sam.    I  've  done  now.    I  've  been  a-writin'. 

Tony.  So  I  see.  Not  to  any  young  'ooman,  I  hope, 
Sammy. 

Sam.    A\Tiy,  it 's  no  use  sayin'  it  ain't.    It 's  a  walentine. 

ToxY.     A  what? 

Sam.    A  walentine. 

ToxY.  Samivel,  Samivel,  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  ha'  done 
it.  Arter  the  warnin'  you  've  had  o'  your  father's  wicious 
perpensities ;  arter  all  I  've  said  to  you  upon  this  here  wery 
subject;  arter  actiwally  seein'  and  bein'  in  the  company  o' 
your  own  mother-in-law,  vich  I  should  ha'  thought  wos  a 
moral  lesson  as  no  man  could  ever  ha'  forgotten  to  his  dyin' 
day !  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  ha'  done  it,  Sammy,  I  did  n't 
think  you  'd  ha'  done  it ! 

Sam.    Wot 's  the  matter,  now  ? 

ToXY.  Nev'r  mind,  Sammy,  it'll  be  a  wery  agonizin' 
trial  to  me  at  my  time  o'  life,  but  I  'm  pretty  tough,  that 's 
vun  consolation,  as  the  wery  old  turkey  remarked  ven  the 
farmer  said  he  wos  afeerd  he  should  be  obliged  to  kill  him 
for  the  London  market. 

Sam.    Wot  '11  be  a  trial  ? 

Tony.  To  see  you  married,  Sammy  —  to  see  you  a 
dilluded  wictim,  and  thinkin'  in  your  innocence  that  it's 
all  wery  capital.  It 's  a  dreadful  trial  to  a  father's  fcelin's, 
that  'ere,  Sammy. 


404  SELECTED   READINGS 

Sam.    Nonsense.    I  ain't  a-goin'  to  get  married,  don't  you 
fret  yourself  about  that;    I  know  you're  a  judge  o'  these 
things.    I  '11  read  you  the  letter,  —  there. 
Sam.    "Lovely  —  " 

Tony.    Stop.    A  double  glass  o'  the  inwariable,  my  dear. 
Barmaid.    Very  well,  sir. 
Sam.    They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here. 
Tony.    Yes,  I  've  been  here  before,  in  my  time.     Go  on, 
Sammy. 

Sam.    "  Lovely  creetur." 
Tony.    Tain't  in  poetry,  is  it? 
Sam.    No,  no. 

Tony.  Wery  glad  to  hear  it.  Poetry 's  unnat'ral ;  never 
you  let  yourself  down  to  talk  poetry,  my  boy.  Begin  again, 
Sammy. 

Sam.     "  Lovely  creetur,  I  feel  myself  a  damned  —  " 
Tony.    That  ain't  proper. 

Sam.    No  ;  it  ain't  "  damned  " ;  it 's  "  shamed."    There 's 
a  blot  there.     "  I  feel  myself  ashamed." 
Tony.    Wery  good.    Go  on. 

Sam.  "Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  cir — "  I 
forget  wot  this  here  word  is. 

Tony.    \Vhy  don't  you  look  at  it,  then  ? 
Sam.     So  I  am  a-lookin'  at  it,  but  there  's  another  blot. 
Here  'sac  and  a  i  and  a  d. 

Tony.     "  Circumwented,"  p'raps. 
Sam.    No,  it  ain't  that.    "  Circumscribed  " ;   that 's  it. 
Tony.     That  ain't  as  good  a  word  as  "circumwented," 
Sammy. 

Sam.    Think  not? 
Tony.    Nothin'  like  it. 
Sam.    But  don't  you  think  it  means  more? 
Tony.     Veil,  p'raps  it  is  a  more  tenderer  word.     Go  on, 
Sammy. 

Sam.   "  Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  circumscribed 
in  a  dressin'  of  you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal  and  nothin'  but  it." 
Tony.    That 's  a  wery  pretty  sentiment. 
Sam.    Yes,  I  think  it  is  ra}i;her  good. 
Tony.     Wot  I  like  in  that  'ere  style  of  writin'  is  that 
there  ain't  no  callin'  names  in  it,  —  no  Wenuses,  nor  nothin' 
o'  that  kind.    Wot's  the  good  o'  callin'  a  young  'ooman  a 
Wenus  or  a  angel,  Sammy? 
Sam.    Ah !  what,  indeed  ? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  405 

Tony.  You  might  jist  as  veil  call  her  a  griffin,  or  a  uni- 
corn, or  a  king's  arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  veil  known  to 
be  a  col-lection  o'  fabulous  animals. 

Sam.    Just  as  well. 

Toxy.     Drive  on,  Sammy. 

Sam.    "  Afore  I  see  you  I  thought  all  women  was  alike." 

Tony.     So  they  are. 

Sam.  "  But  now  I  find  what  a  regular  soft-headed,  ink- 
red'lous  turnip  I  must  ha'  been ;  for  there  ain't  nobody  like 
you  though  /  like  you  better  than  nothin'  at  all."  ( I  thought 
it  best  to  make  that  rayther  strong.)  "  So  I  take  the  privi- 
lidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear,  —  as  the  gen'lem'n  in  diffi- 
culties did,  ven  he  valked  out  of  a  Sunday,  —  to  tell  you  that 
the  first  and  only  time  I  see  you,  your  likeness  was  took  on 
my  heart  in  much  quicker  time  and  brighter  colors  than  ever 
a  likeness  was  took  by  the  profeel  macheen,  altho'  it  does 
finish  a  portrait  and  put  the  frame  and  glass  on  complete 
with  a  hook  at  the  end  to  hang  it  up  by  and  all  in  two 
minutes  and  a  quarter." 

Tony.    I  am  afeerd  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Sammy. 

Sam.  No,  it  don't.  "  Except  of  me,  Mary,  my  dear,  as 
your  walentine  and  think  over  what  I  've  said.  My  dear 
Mar)'-,  I  will  now  conclude."     That's  all. 

Tony.    That 's  rather  a  sudden  pull  up,  ain't  it,  Sammy  ? 

Sam.  Not  a  bit  on  it.  She  '11  vish  there  wos  more,  and 
that 's  the  great  art  o'  letter  writin'. 

Tony.  Well,  there  's  somethin'  in  that ;  and  I  wish  your 
mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her  conwersation  on  the 
same  genteel  principle.    Ain't  you  a-goin'  to  sign  it  ? 

Sam.    That 's  the  difficulty.    I  don't  know  what  to  sign  it. 

Tony.    Sign  it  "  Veller." 

Sam.  Won't  do.  Never  sign  a  walentine  with  your  own 
name. 

Tony.  Sign  it  "  Pickvick,"  then.  It 's  a  wery  good  name, 
and  a  easy  one  to  spell. 

Sam.  The  wery  thing.  I  could  end  it  with  a  werse; 
what  do  you  think? 

Tony.  I  don't  like  it,  Sam.  I  never  know'd  a  respectable 
coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  'cept  one,  as  made  a  affectin'  copy 
o'  werses  the  night  afore  he  wos  hung  for  a  highway  robbery. 

Sam.    This  sounds  fine,  though. 

"  Your  love-sick 
Pickwick." 


406  SELECTED   READINGS 

Tony.  I  must  be  a-goin',  Sammy.  Vot  I  came  'ere  to 
see  you  about  vos  your  governor.  If  he  does  get  in  prison 
I  've  the  thought  o'  a  vay  of  gettin'  him  out  in  a  turn-up 
bedstead,  unbeknown  to  the  turnkeys,  Sammy,  or  dressin' 
him  up  like  an  old  'ooman  vith  a  green  wail. 

Sam.    That  would  n't  do  at  all. 

Tony.  Me  and  a  cab'net-maker  has  dewised  a  plan  for 
gettin'  him  out.    A  planner,  Samivel,  a  planner. 

Sam.    Wot  do  you  mean? 

Tony.  A  planner  forty,  Samivel,  as  he  can  have  on  hire; 
vun  as  von't  play,  Sammy. 

Sam.    And  wot  'ud  be  the  good  o'  that  ? 

Tony.  Let  him  send  to  my  friend  the  cab'net-maker's  to 
fetch  it  back,  Sammy.    Are  you  avake  now? 

Sam.    No. 

Tony.  There  ain't  no  vurks  in  it.  It  'ud  hold  him  easy, 
vith  his  hat  and  shoes  on,  and  breathe  through  the  legs,  vich 
is  holler.  Have  a  passage  ready  taken  for  'Merriker.  The 
'Merrikin  gov'ment  vill  never  give  him  up,  ven  vunce  they 
finds  as  he 's  got  money  to  spend,  Sammy.  Let  him  stop 
there  till  the  widder  is  dead,  and  then  let  him  come  back  and 
write  a  book  about  the  'Merrikins  as  '11  pay  all  his  expenses 
and  more,  if  he  blows  'em  up  enough. 

Sam.  But  he  ain't  in  prison  yet,  you  old  picter-card.  He 
ain't  tried  till  to-morrow. 

Tony.  That 's  true,  Sammy,  but  it 's  against  a  widder  and 
he 's  sure  to  lose.  Howsomeever,  I  've  been  a-tumin'  the  bus'- 
ness  over  in  my  mind.  I  s'pose  he  '11  want  to  call  some  wit- 
nesses to  speak  to  his  character,  or  p'raps  to  prove  a  alleybi, 
and  he  may  make  his-self  easy.  I  've  got  some  friends  as  '11 
do  either  for  him,  but  my  adwice  'ud  be  this  here,  —  never 
mind  the  character,  and  stick  to  the  alleybi.  Nothing  like 
a  alleybi,  Sammy,  nothing.  Verever  he  's  a-goin'  to  be  tried, 
my  boy,  a  alleybi 's  the  thing  to  get  him  off.  A  alleybi, 
Sammy,  a  alle)^bi. 


Dickens. 


Arranged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


SCENE    FROM    "THE    MIGHTY    DOLLAR" 

LOED  CAIENGOEME.     Well,  madam,  to  resume  our 
conversation.     I  contend  that  the  American  women 
are  the  prettiest  in  the  world.     It  is  very  remarkable,  you 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  407 

know,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it  —  what  a  country  you 
are,  and  what  a  short  time  you  have  had  to  become  so  pretty. 
Only  think  of  it,  two  hundred  years  ago  3fou  were  red  sav- 
ages, going  about  with  feathers  and  tomahawks,  and  very 
little  else.  It 's  astonishing,  you  know.  You  are  not  called 
a  go-ahead  country  for  nothing. 

Mrs.  Gilflory.  Vous  ate  trop  hong;  excuse  me,  my  lord, 
for  dropping  so  suddenly  into  French,  but  I  've  lived  so  long 
abroad  that  it  has  become  second  nature  to  me.  [Turning 
to  her  niece  Libhi/,  who  is  up  the  stage  flirting  with  Charlie 
Brood.^  Libby,  Libby  dear,  what  are  you  doing?  Excuse 
me,  my  lord,  but  that  niece  of  mine  has  quite  embarrassed 
me.  I  know  you  will  excuse  me,  my  lord;  but,  as  I  was 
saying,  —  Libby,  Libby  dear !  —  Oh,  she  has  driven  what  I 
was  about  to  say  completely  out  of  my  head.  Excuse  me, 
my  lord,  excuse  me. 

Lord  C.  Really,  if  you  would  n't  call  me  "  my  lord," 
you  would  oblige  me  very  much.  I  feel  that  I  am  among 
simple  republican  people  who  set  no  value  on  titles  except 
Judge,  Mayor,  Colonel,  or  General,  and  I  feel  sadly  em- 
barrassed when  I  am  addressed  according  to  the  custom  of 
my  own  country.  If  you  would  only  call  me  General  or 
Judge,  you  don't  know  how  much  obliged  I  would  be. 

Mrs.  G.  Qu£l  plaisanterie  I  Excuse  me,  I  've  lived  so  long 
abroad  —  but  do  not  feel  embarrassed,  I  beg.  Our  best 
society  rather  fancies  lords.  You  would  say  so  too,  if  you 
could  see  how  it  runs  after  them. 

Lord  C.  Now  tell  me,  what  are  your  theories  about  the 
equality  of  man? 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  we're  not  talking  so  much  about  that  as 
we  were  —  many  of  our  best  families  feel  so  much  better 
than  their  fellow-citizens  that  they  would  not  object  to 
wearing  titles  themselves,  just  to  show  the  distinction.  Say 
vray,  my  lord,  say  vray. 

Enter  the  Honorable  Bardwell  Slote 

Slote.  You  will  excuse  me,  Mrs.  General  Gilflory.  What 
you  say  may  be  quite  true,  but  I  flatter  myself  I  am  as  good 
as  any  lord,  by  an  a.  1.  m.  —  a  large  majority. 

Lord  C.  I  dare  say  you  do.  You  look  like  one  of  the 
kind  who  think  themselves  better.  [Aside.']  Another  re- 
markable product  for  a  young  country. 

Slote.    Well,  Mrs.  General  Gilflory,  we  missed  you  from 


408  SELECTED   READINGS 

the  ballroom  —  why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  You  seem  an- 
noyed. 

Mrs.  G.  And  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  Libby  gives  me  such 
a  world  of  trouble.  I  wish  she  'd  venny  seci.  —  Excuse  my 
French,  I  've  lived  so  long  abroad. 

Slote.     Oui  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  do  you  speak  French? 

Slote.    Ong  pew.    I  prefer  English,  by  a  large  majority. 

Mrs.  G,  Oh,  what  a  delightful  language  it  is !  How  poet- 
ical even  the  commonest  things  sound  in  it !  Pom  de  tare  — 
oil,  natural !    How  different  that  sounds  from  boiled  potatoes  ! 

Slote.  So  it  does;  but  then  the  potatoes  taste  the  same 
in  both  languages,  and  there's  where  the  potatoes  have  got 
the  best  of  it,  I  think. 

Mrs.  G.  Well,  to  return  to  our  muttons.  Libby  gives 
me  such  a  world  of  trouble.  Her  mother  being  dead,  I  am 
her  only  protector.  Sa  sel  protectress.  I  can't  do  anything 
with  her;  she  will  insist  upon  remaining  unfashionable  in 
spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  make  her  a  woman  of  tong.  She 's 
been  all  over  Europe  with  me. 

Slote.    So  she  's  been  all  over  Europe  with  you,  has  she  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  she  has  seen  the  Colloshum  at  Naples;  the 
Parthenian  in  London,  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  at  Mt. 
Vesuvius,  but  she  won't  be  refined.    Sai  triste,  nes  parf 

Slote.  Of  course,  when  you  were  abroad  you  visited  the 
Dardanelles  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  yes ;  we  dined  with  them.  —  But  she 
won't  be  refined.    Sai  triste,  nes  par? 

Slote.    Oui. 

Mrs.  G.  Libby,  Libby  dear !  Oh,  dear  me,  how  she  does 
annoy  me !  It 's  a  maxim  of  mine  that  une  wa-so  don  la 
mang  vot  de  se  larum. 

Slote,  So  I  perceive.  Excuse  me,  madam,  but  I  did  n't 
quite  understand  that  last  remark  of  yours. 

Mrs.  G.    a  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush. 

Slote.    Yes,  yes ;   if  the  one  in  the  hand 's  a  turkey ! 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  you  droll !  I  have  done  my  very  best  to 
improve  her  mind.  I  have  only  let  her  read  the  very  best 
books,  such  as  Charles  Dickson's  "  David  Copperplate," 
Jack  Bunsby's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  Tom  Moore's 
"  Maladies  " ;  and  to  think  that  after  the  instruction  I  have 
given  her  she  should  look  no  higher  than  that  silly  Billy 
of  a  man,  Mr.  Charlie  Brood! 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  409 

Slote.  Wliat,  that  youngster  that  I  saw  chasing  her 
about  here?  Surely,  you  will  never  let  her  marry  such  a 
donkey  as  he  is? 

Mes.  G.  Why,  he  is  as  rich  as  Creosote.  He's  worth  a 
million. 

Slote.  Oh,  pardon  me,  madam;  when  I  called  him  a 
donkey  I  did  it  in  a  parliamentary  sense.  [Aside.]  I  must 
cultivate  the  young  man's  acquaintance. 

Mes.  G.  Now,  my  dear  Judge,  you  must  remember  that 
Libby's  ancestors  came  over  on  the  "  Cauliflower "  and 
settled  on  Plymouth  Church,  therefore  I  naturally  look  for 
somebody  with  blood  to  be  her  husband. 

Slote.  Blood  —  well,  you  don't  object  to  some  flesh  and 
bones,  do  you? 

Mes.  G.  Oh,  you  wag!  So  I  have  set  my  mind  upon 
her  marrying  Lord  Cairngorme. 

Slote."^  Lord  Cairngorme  —  what,  he  of  the  eye-glass 
and  shirt  collar?  Pardon  me,  madam,  for  keeping  you 
standing  so  long.  Let  me  present  you  with  a  seat;  we  can 
continue  our  conversation  so  much  more  at  our  ease. 

Mes.  G.  [Seated  in  a  rustic  chair.]  Thank  you  so 
much.  Judge,  bu  mo  fectro  dono. 

Slote.  And  so,  madam,  you  tell  me  you  lived  in  France 
for  many  years. 

Mes.  G.  Yes,  Judge.  I  lived  in  Paris  long  enough  to 
become  a  Parasite.  Libby,  Libby  dear !  There  's  that  Libby 
flirting  with  Charlie  Brood  and  neglecting  Lord  Cairn- 
gorme.   Excuse  me,  Judge.    Libby,  Libby  dear! 

Benjamin  Edv^^aed  Woolf. 


SCENE  FROM  "THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL" 

[This  selection  offers  unusual  opportunities  for  the  cultivation  of 
the  voice  and  the  acquiring  of  fine  deportment.] 

Act  II 

Sir  Peter's  House 

Enter  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter,  l. 

SIR  P.    Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I  '11  not  bear  it ! 
Lady  T.     (r.)     Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it 
or  not,  as  you  please ;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own  way  in 
every  thing ;  and  what 's  more,  I  will  too.    What !  though  I 


410  SELECTED   READINGS 

was  educated  in  the  country,  I  know  very  well  that  women 
of  fashion  in  London  are  accountable  to  nobody  after  they 
are  married. 

Sir  p.  [l.]  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well  —  so  a  husband 
is  to  have  no  influence,  no  authority? 

Lady  T.  Authority  !  No,  to  be  sure :  —  if  you  wanted 
authority  over  me,  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not 
married  me:  I  am  sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  p.  Old  enough !  —  ay  —  there  it  is.  Well,  well. 
Lady  Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by 
your  temper,  I  '11  not  be  ruined  by  your  extravagance. 

Lady  T.  My  extravagance !  I  'm  sure  I  'm  not  more 
extravagant  than  a  woman  ought  to  be. 

Sir  p.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away  no  more 
sums  on  such  unmeaning  luxury.  'Slife  !  to  spend  as  much 
to  furnish  your  dressing-room  with  flowers  in  winter  as  would 
suiflce  to  turn  the  Pantheon  into  a  green-house,  and  give  a 
fete  champetre  at  Christmas. 

Lady  T.  Lord,  Sir  Peter,  am  I  to  blame,  because  flowers 
are  dear  in  cold  weather?  You  should  find  fault  with  the 
climate,  and  not  with  me.  For  my  part,  I  'm  sure,  I  wish 
it  was  spring  all  the  year  round,  and  that  roses  grew  under 
our  feet! 

Sir  p.  Oons !  madam  —  if  you  had  been  born  to  this,  I 
should  n't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus ;  but  you  forget  what 
your  situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  T.  No,  no,  I  don't ;  't  was  a  very  disagreeable  one, 
or  I  should  never  have  married  you. 

Sir  Peter.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  you  were  then  in  somewhat 
a  humbler  style :  —  the  daughter  of  a  plain  country  squire. 
Eecollect,  Lady  Teazle,  when  I  saw  you  first  sitting  at  your 
tambour,  in  a  pretty  figured  linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of 
keys  at  your  side ;  your  hair  combed  smooth  over  a  roll,  and 
your  apartment  hung  round  with  fruits  in  worsted  of  your 
own  working. 

Lady  T.  0  yes !  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curious 
life  I  led.  —  My  daily  occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  su- 
perintend the  poultr}^,  make  extracts  from  the  family  receipt 
book,  —  and  comb  my  aunt  Deborah's  lap-dog. 

Sir  p.    Yes,  yes,  ma'am,  't  was  so  indeed. 

Lady  T.  And  then,  you  know,  my  evening  amusements ! 
To  draw  patterns  for  ruffles,  which  I  had  not  materials  to 
make  up;    to  play  Pope  Joan  with  the  curate;    to  read  a 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  411 

novel  to  my  aunt;  or  to  be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to 
strum  my  father  to  sleep  after  a  fox-chase.  [Crosses,  l. 

Sir  p.  (k.)  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory. — 
Yes,  madam,  these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from; 
but  now  you  must  have  your  coach  —  vis-d-vis  —  and  three 
powdered  footmen  before  your  chair;  and,  in  the  summer, 
a  pair  of  white  cats  to  draw  you  to  Kensington  gardens. 
No  recollection,  I  suppose,  when  you  w^ere  content  to  ride 
double,  behind  the  butler,  on  a  dock'd  coach-horse. 

Ladt  T.  (l.)  No  —  I  swear  I  never  did  that:  I  deny  the 
butler  and  the  coach-horse. 

Sir  p.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation ;  and  what  have 
I  done  for  you?  I  have  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion,  of 
fortune,  of  rank ;  in  short,  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  T.  Well,  then,  —  and  there  is  but  one  thing  more 
you  can  make  me  add  to  the  obligation,  and  that  is  — 

Sir  p.    My  widow,  I  suppose  ? 

Lady  T.    Hem  !   hem  ! 

Sir  p.  I  thank  you,  madam  —  but  don't  flatter  yourself ; 
for  though  3'our  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind, 
it  shall  never  break  my  heart,  I  promise  you:  however,  I 
am  equally  obliged  to  you  for  the  hint.  [Crosses,  l. 

Lady  T.  Then  why  will  you  endeavor  to  make  yourself 
so  disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in  every  little  elegant 
expense  ? 

Sir  p.  (l.)  'Slife,  madam,  I  say,  had  you  any  of  these 
little  elegant  expenses  when  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  Lud,  Sir  Peter!  would  you  have  me  be  out  of 
the  fashion? 

Sir  p.  The  fashion,  indeed!  "Wliat  had  you  to  do  with 
the  fashion  before  you  married  me? 

Lady  T.  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would  like  to 
have  your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 

Sir  p.  Taste  —  Zounds !  madam,  you  had  no  taste  when 
you  married  me ! 

Lady  T.  That 's  very  true  indeed,  Sir  Peter ;  and  after  hav- 
ing married  you  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I  allow. 
But  now,  Sir  Peter,  since  we  have  finished  our  daily  jangle,  I 
presume  I  may  go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneerwell's. 

Sir  p.  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance  —  a 
charming  set  of  acquaintance  you  have  made  there. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  arc  all  people  of  rank  and 
fortune,  and  remarkably  tenacious  of  reputation. 


412  SELECTED   READINGS 

Sir  p.  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of  reputation  with 
a  vengeance:  for  they  don't  choose  anybody  should  have  a 
character  but  themselves ! 

Lady  T,  What!  would  you  restrain  the  freedom  of 
speech  ? 

Sir  p.  Ah !  they  have  made  you  just  as  bad  as  any  one 
of  the  society. 

Lady  T.  Wli}^  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  tolera- 
ble grace.  But  I  vow  I  bear  no  malice  against  the  people 
I  abuse.  —  When  I  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  't  is  out  of 
pure  good  humor;  and  I  take  it  for  granted,  they  deal  ex- 
actly in  the  same  manner  with  me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you 
know  you  promised  to  come  to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  p.  Well,  well,  I  '11  call  in  just  to  look  after  my  own 
character. 

Lady  T.  Then  indeed  you  must  make  haste  after  me, 
or  you  '11  be  too  late.     So,  good-bye  to  ye. 

[Exit  Lady  Teazle,  r. 

Sir  p.  So  —  I  have  gained  much  by  my  intended  ex- 
postulation: yet,  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts 
everything  I  say,  and  how  pleasingly  she  shows  her  con- 
tempt for  my  authority !  Well,  though  I  can't  make  her 
love  me,  there  is  great  satisfaction  in  quarrelling  with  her; 
and  I  think  she  never  appears  to  such  advantage,  as  when 
she  is  doing  everything  in  her  power  to  plague  me. 

[Exit,  L. 

ElCHARD    BrINSLEY    ShERIDAN. 

Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


SCENE    FROM    "THE    RIVALS" 

LUCY.  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  traversed  half  the  town  in 
search  of  it;  I  don't  believe  there's  a  circulating 
library  in  Bath  I  ha'n't  been  at. 

Lydia.  [Seated  on  a  sofa.l  And  could  not  you  get  "  The 
Reward  of  Constancy  "  ? 

Lucy.     No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lydia.    Nor  "The  Fatal  Connection"? 

Lucy.     No,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Lydia.     Nor  "  The  Mistakes  of  the  Heart "  ? 

Lucy.  Ma'am,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  Mr.  Bull  said 
Miss  Sukey  Saunter  had  just  fetched  it  away. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  413 

Ltdia.  Heigho  !  —  Did  you  inquire  for  "  The  Delicate 
Distress"?  or,  "The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Woodford"? 

Lucy.  Yes,  indeed,  ma'am,  I  asked  everywhere  for  it; 
and  I  might  have  brought  it  from  Mr.  Frederick's  but  Lady 
Slattern  Lounger,  who  had  just  sent  it  home,  had  so  soiled 
and  dog's-eared  it,  it  wa'n't  fit  for  a  Christian  to  read. 

Lydia.    Heigho  !  Well,  child,  what  have  you  brought  me  ? 

Lucy.  0,  here,  ma'am  !  This  is  "  The  Man  of  Feeling  " 
and  this  "  Peregrine  Pickle."  Here  are  "  The  Tears  of 
Sensibility  "  and  "  Humphrey  Clinker." 

Lydia.  Hold !  Here 's  some  one  coming  —  Quick,  see 
who  it  is! 

Luci'.     0,  ma'am,  here  comes  your  aunt. 

Lydia.  Here,  my  dear  Lucy,  hide  these  books.  Quick, 
quick ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Malaprop 

Mrs.  M.  There  sits  the  deliberate  simpleton  who  wants 
to  disgrace  her  family  and  lavish  herself  on  a  fellow  not 
worth  a  shilling. 

Lydia.     Madam,  I  thought  you  once  — 

Mrs.  M.  You  thought,  miss !  I  don't  know  any  busi- 
ness you  have  to  think  at  all  —  thought  does  not  become  a 
young  woman.  But  the  point  I  would  request  of  you  is, 
that  )^ou  will  promise  to  forget  this  fellow  —  to  illiterate 
him  from  your  memory. 

Lydia.  Ah,  madam !  our  memories  are  independent  of 
our  wills.    It  is  not  so  easy  to  forget. 

Mrs.  M.  But  I  say  it  is,  miss;  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  so  eas}'  as  to  forget,  if  a  person  chooses  to  set  about 
it.  I  'm  sure  I  have  as  much  forgot  your  poor  dear  uncle 
as  if  he  had  never  existed  —  and  I  thought  it  my  duty  so 
to  do ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Lydia,  these  violent  memories 
don't  become  a  young  woman. 

Lydia.  What  crime,  madam,  have  I  committed,  to  be 
treated  thus? 

Mrs.  M.  Now  don't  attempt  to  extirpate  yourself  from 
the  matter;  you  know  I  have  proof  controvertible  of  it.  But 
tell  me,  will  you  promise  me  to  do  as  you  are  bid?  Will 
you  take  a  husband  of  your  friends'  choosing? 

Lydia.  Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that  had  I  no 
preference  for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have  made  would 
be  my  aversion. 


414  SELECTED    READINGS 

Mrs.  M,  What  business  have  you,  miss,  with  preference 
and  aversion f  They  don't  become  a  young  woman;  and 
you  ought  to  know  that,  as  both  always  wear  off,  't  is  safest 
in  matrimony  to  begin  with  a  little  aversion.  I  am  sure  I 
hated  your  poor  dear  uncle  before  marriage  as  if  he  'd  been 
a  blackamoor  —  and  yet,  miss,  you  are  sensible  what  a 
wife  I  made !  and  when  it  pleased  Heaven  to  release  me 
from  him,  'tis  unknown  what  tears  I  shed!  But  suppose  I 
were  to  give  you  another  choice,  will  you  promise  to  give 
up  this  Beverley? 

Lydia.  Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give  that 
promise,  my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie  my  words. 

Mes.  M.  Take  yourself  to  your  room.  You  are  fit 
company  for  nothing  but  your  own  ill  humors. 

Lydia.  Willingly,  ma'am.  I  cannot  change  for  the 
worse.     l^Exit.'] 

Mrs.  M.  There 's  a  little  intricate  hussy  for  you !  I 
would  by  no  means  wish  a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  a  prog- 
eny of  learning.  I  don't  think  so  much  learning  becomes 
a  young  woman ;  for  instance,  I  would  never  let  her  meddle 
with  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or  Algebra,  or  Simony,  or  Fluxions, 
or  Paradoxes,  or  such  inflammatory  branches  of  learning; 
neither  would  it  be  necessary  for  her  to  handle  any  of  your 
mathematical,  astronomical,  diabolical  instruments.  —  But 
I  would  send  her,  at  nine  years  old,  to  a  boarding  school, 
in  order  to  learn  a  little  ingenuity,  and  artifice.  Then  she 
should  have  a  supercilious  knowledge  in  accounts;  and  as 
she  grew  up,  I  would  have  her  instructed  in  geometry,  that 
she  might  know  something  of  the  contagious  countries; 
above  all,  she  should  be  a  perfect  mistress  of  orthodoxy, 
that  is  she  might  not  mispronounce  or  misspell  words  so 
shamefully  as  girls  usually  do ;  and  likewise  that  she  might 
reprehend  the  true  meaning  of  what  she  is  saying.  This  is 
what  I  would  have  a  woman  know,  and  I  don't  think  there 
is  a  superstitious  article  in  it.  —  Well,  at  any  rate,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  get  her  from  imder  my  intuition;  she  has  some- 
how discovered  my  partiality  for  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger.  — 
Sure,  Lucy  can't  have  betrayed  me !  —  No,  the  girl  is  such 
a  simpleton,  I  should  have  made  her  confess  it.  —  Lucy !  — 
Lucy !  — 

Enter  Lucy 
Lucy.    Did  you  call,  ma'am? 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  415 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  girl.  Did  you  see  Sir  Lucius  while  you 
was  out? 

Lucy.     No,  indeed,  ma'am,  not  a  glimpse  of  him. 

Mrs.  M.  You  are  sure,  Lucy,  that  you  never  men- 
tioned — 

Lucy.    Oh,  Gemini !    I  'd  sooner  cut  my  tongue  out ! 

Mrs.  M.    "Well,  don't  let  your  simplicity  be  imposed  on. 

Lucy.    No,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  M.  So,  come  to  me  presently,  and  I  '11  give  j^ou 
another  letter  to  Sir  Lucius;  but  mind,  Lucy,  if  ever  you 
betray  what  you  are  intrusted  with  (unless  it  be  other 
people's  secrets  to  me),  you  forfeit  my  malevolence  for  ever; 
and  your  being  a  simpleton  shall  be  no  excuse  for  your 
locality. 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 
Abridged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


DIALOGUE    FROM    "CRITIC    OF    THE    SCHOOL 

FOR  WIVES" 

Scene  1 

Uraine,  Elise 

UR A^    What !   cousin,  has  no  one  come  to  visit  you  ? 
El.     No,  not  a  soul. 

Ura.  Really,  it  does  surprise  me  that  we  both  have  been 
alone  all  day. 

El.  Well,  I  'm  surprised  myself,  for  't  is  not  customary ; 
your  house,  thank  God,  is  the  usual  refuge  of  all  the  idlers 
of  the  court. 

Ura.  To  tell  the  truth,  to  me  the  afternoon  seemed  very 
long. 

El.    And  I,  I  thought  it  short. 

Ura.     Fine  minds,  they  say,  love  solitude. 

El.  Fine  minds,  indeed !  You  know  it  was  not  that  I 
meant. 

Ura.    Well,  as  for  me,  I  own  that  I  like  company. 

El.  I  like  it  too,  but  then  I  like  it  choice.  The  number 
of  silly  visits  one  has  to  endure  among  the  rest  is  often  the 
yery  reason  why  I  like  to  be  alone. 

Ura.  Delicacy  can  only  bear  the  presence  of  those  who 
arc  refined. 


416  SELECTED   READINGS 

El.  People  are  too  compliant  in  tolerating  with  com- 
posure all  sorts  of  persons. 

Ura.  Well,  I  enjoy  the  wise,  but  I  divert  myself  with 
all  the  silly  ones. 

El.  Yes,  but  the  silly  ones  do  not  get  far  before  they 
bore  you;  most  of  them  are  not  amusing  on  their  second 
visit.  But,  apropos  of  silly  people,  will  you  not  rid  me  of 
your  troublesome  marquis?  You  can't  expect  to  leave  him 
on  my  hands  forever,  or  that  I  will  long  endure  his  ever- 
lasting punning. 

Ura.  Punning  is  all  the  fashion;  they  think  it  wit  at 
court. 

El.  Alas  for  those  who  strain  all  day  to  talk  such  empty 
jargon !  A  fine  thing  truly,  to  drag  old  jokes,  raked  from 
the  mud  of  markets  into  the  palace  conversations !  No  won- 
der those  who  affect  that  style  of  language  know  it  is  silly. 
All  the  worse  therefore  to  take  such  pains  to  be  so  silly  and 
make  themselves  such  sorry  jesters  knowingly.  I  think  them 
the  less  excusable,  and  if  I  were  judge  of  the  world  I  know 
well  to  what  I  would  condemn  such  punsters. 

Ura.  Well,  let  us  drop  the  matter,  which  nettles  you  too 
much. 

Scene  2 

Galopin,  Uranie,  Elise 

Gal.    Climene  is  here,  madame,  and  asks  to  see  you. 

Ura.    Oh,  Heaven  !  what  a  visit ! 

El.  You  grumbled  because  you  were  alone,  and  Heaven 
has  punished  you. 

Ura.  \To  Gal.]  Quick!  go  and  tell  her  I  am  not  at 
home. 

Gal.    She  has  been  told  already  that  you  are. 

Ura.    What  fool  said  that? 

Gal.    'T  was  I,  madame. 

Ura.  Little  wretch !  I  '11  teach  you  to  give  answers  from 
yourself. 

Gal.  Then  I  '11  go  tell  her,  madame,  that  you  say  you 
are  out. 

Ura.  Stop,  you  little  animal!  Let  her  come  up;  the 
mischief  's  done. 

Gal.    She  is^  talking  still  to  some  one  in  the  street. 

Ura.  \To  El.]  Ah!  cousin,  how  this  visit  does  annoy 
me !     Just  at  this  moment,  too  ! 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  417 

El.  The  lady  is  annoying  in  herself ;  I  have  always  had 
a  furious  aversion  to  her ;  and,  begging  her  quality's  pardon 
I  think  her  the  silliest  fool  that  ever  took  to  reasoning. 

Ura.    Your  epithets  are  rather  strong. 

ISl.  Well,  she  deserves  them  all,  and  more  to  boot  if 
people  did  her  justice.  She  is  the  most  affected  creature  in 
the  world.  It  really  seems  as  though  the  structure  of  her 
body  were  out  of  order,  and  that  her  hips,  her  head,  her 
shoulders  were  jerked  by  springs.  She  affects  that  languid, 
silly  tone  of  voice,  purses  her  mouth  to  make  you  think  it 
small,  and  rolls  her  eyes  to  make  them  larger. 

Uea,    Oh  !  gently,  please ;  suppose  she  heard  you  ? 

El.  No,  she  has  not  come  up.  I  can't  forget  the  night 
she  wanted  to  see  Damon,  on  the  strength  of  his  repute  and 
the  fine  things  the  public  say  of  him.  You  know  the  man, 
and  his  natural  laziness  in  conversation.  She  invited  him 
to  supper  as  a  wit,  and  never  did  he  seem  so  stupid;  the 
half-dozen  persons  she  had  gathered  to  enjoy  his  talk  sat 
gazing  at  him  with  round  eyes,  as  though  he  were  a  being 
not  like  others.  They  all  considered  he  was  there  to  feed 
them  with  hons  mots,  and  that  every  word  that  left  his  lips 
must  be  impromptu  wit,  if  he  but  asked  for  drink.  He  fooled 
them  all  by  silence,  and  my  lady  was  as  much  displeased 
with  him  as  I  with  her. 

Ura,    Hush,  hush !    I  am  going  to  receive  her  at  the  door. 

El.  Stay,  one  word  more.  I  'd  like  to  see  her  married 
to  that  marquis.    What  a  pair  't  would  be ! 

Uea.    Do  be  silent !  here  she  comes. 

Scene  3 

Uranie,  Elise,  Climene,  Galopin 

Ura.  Eeally,  you  are  very  late  — 

Cli.  Oh !  for  pity's  sake,  my  dear,  give  me  a  chair  at 
once. 

Ura.  [To  Gal.]    An  armchair,  quick ! 

Cli.  Ah,  heavens ! 

Ura.  What  is  it? 

Cli.  I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Ura.  But  what's  the  matter? 

Cli.  My  heart  is  failing ! 

Ura.  Is  it  hysterics? 

Cli.  Oh!    no,  no. 

27 


418  SELECTED   READINGS 

Ura.    Shall  I  unlace  you? 

Cli.    Good  heavens,  no  !  —  Ah ! 

Uea.    But  where 's  the  pain  ?    WTien  did  it  seize  you  ? 

Cli.    Three  hours  ago  —  at  the  Palais  Eoyal. 

Uka.    How  ? 

Cli.  For  my  sins,  I  went  to  see  that  wicked  rhapsody 
"  The  School  for  Wives."  I  am  fainting  still  from  the  nausea 
that  it  gave  me  —  I  think  that  I  shall  not  recover  for  weeks. 

El.     Just  see  how  illness  takes  us  unawares ! 

Ura.  I  don't  know  what  our  constitutions  are,  my  cousin's 
and  mine,  but  we  both  went  to  see  that  very  play  last  night, 
and  came  back  gay  and  healthy. 

Cli.    What!   you  have  seen  it? 

Ura.    Yes,  and  heard 'it  too,  from  end  to  end. 

Cli.    My  dear!  and  you  did  not  go  into  convulsions? 

Ura.  I  am  not  so  delicate,  thank  God !  For  my  part,  I 
thought  the  comedy  more  like  to  cure  its  hearers  than  to  hurt 
them. 

Cli.  Oh !  how  can  you  say  so  ?  How  can  a  person  with 
common  sense  put  forth  that  proposition  ?  You  cannot,  with 
impunity,  fly  in  the  face  of  reason.  Candidly,  is  there  a  soul 
that  can  relish  the  mawkish  stuff  with  which  that  comedy 
is  seasoned  ?  For  myself,  I  own  I  could  not  find  a  grain  of 
spice  in  all  of  it. 

El.  I  thought  myself  the  play  was  good,  but  madame's 
eloquence  is  so  persuasive,  she  turns  things  in  a  manner  so 
delightful,  that  we  must  all  agree  in  sentiment  with  her,  no 
matter  what  our  own  opinion  is. 

Ura.  As  for  me,  I  am  not  so  complying.  To  tell  my 
honest  thought,  I  think  that  comedy  among  the  best  the 
author  has  produced. 

Cli.  Ah !  When  you  say  that  you  make  me  pity  you ;  I 
can't  endure  that  you  should  have  such  poor  discernment. 
How  can  any  one  possessing  virtue  find  pleasure  in  a  play 
which  keeps  our  modesty  forever  in  alarm  and  soils  the 
imagination  constantly. 

El.  How  charmingly  she  put  it !  You  are  indeed  a  cruel 
critic,  madame. 

Cli.  [To  Ura.]  My  dear,  correct  your  judgment.  For 
your  own  honor's  sake,  don't  tell  the  world  you  liked  that 
comedy. 

Ura.  I  do  not  see  what  you  can  find  there  to  offend  your 
modesty. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  419 

Cli,  Alas!  the  whole  of  it.  I  do  maintain  no  honest 
woman  can  see  that  play  without  confusion. 

Ura.    For  my  part,  I  see  no  harm  in  it. 

Cli.    So  much  the  worse  for  you. 

Ura.  So  much  the  better,  it  seems  to  me.  I  look  at 
things  on  the  side  they  are  shown  to  me ;  I  do  not  twist  them 
round  to  search  for  what  should  not  be  seen. 

Cli.     a  woman's  virtue  — 

Ura.  a  woman's  virtue  is  not  in  cant.  It  ill  becomes  her 
to  assume  to  be  more  virtuous  than  those  who  are  truly 
virtuous.  Affectation  is  worse  in  this  particular  matter  than 
in  others.  I  know  nothing  so  ridiculous  as  this  supersensi- 
tive virtue  which  finds  evil  everywhere,  supposes  criminal 
meaning  in  the  most  innocent  words,  and  takes  offence  at 
shadows.  Believe  me,  those  who  make  this  great  ado  are  not 
considered  better  women.  On  the  contrary,  their  whispering 
severity  and  their  affected  airs  excite  the  censure  of  the  world 
against  the  actions  of  their  lives.  People  are  charmed  to  find 
some  blame  to  put  upon  them.  To  give  you  an  example: 
opposite  to  the  box  in  which  we  sat  to  see  this  comedy  were 
certain  women  who,  by  their  behavior  throughout  the  play, 
—  hiding  their  faces,  turning  away  their  heads  affectedly  — 
excited  men  to  say  a  hundred  slighting  things  about  their 
conduct,  which  would  not  have  been  said  without  it. 

Cli.  Ah !  heavens  !  say  no  more ;  you  cast  me  into  un- 
utterable confusion.  [To  Uranie.]  Now  we  are  two  against 
you,  and  obstinacy  ill  becomes  a  clever  woman. 

MOLIERE. 

SCENES    FROM   "THE    LAST   DAYS    OF 

POMPEII " 

lONE   AND    NyDIA 

Scene:    A  room  in  Tone's  House.     Ione  sealed  at  table, 
right;  two  fan  girls  at  hacTc  of  Ione.    Enter  slave,  left. 

SLAVE.     A  messenger  from  Glaucus  desires  to  be  ad- 
mitted.    [Paii^e.^     She  is  blind.    She  will  do  her  com- 
mission to  none  but  thee. 

Ione.  [Speaking  to  herself.']  What  can  he  want  with 
me?  What  message  can  he  send?  [Slow  mtisic;  curinin 
is  drawn  aside,  and  Nydia,  led  by  an  attendant,  enters 
with  noiseless  step,  bearing  a  beautiful  vase  of  flowers; 


420  SELECTED   READINGS 

remains  silent  a  moment  as  if  listening  for  some  sound  to 
direct  her.l 

Nydia.  Will  the  noble  lone  deign  to  speak  that  I  may 
know  whither  to  steer  these  benighted  steps,  and  that  I  may 
lay  my  offerings  at  her  feet? 

loNE.  [Soothingly.']  Fair  child,  give  not  thyself  the 
pain  to  cross  this  slippery  floor.  My  attendant  will  bring 
to  me  what  thou  hast  to  present.  [Motions  handmaid  to 
take  vase.~\ 

Nydia.  I  may  give  these  flowers  to  none  but  thee. 
[Crosses  slowly  to  Ione,  kneels  and  proffers  floivers.  Ione 
takes  flowers  and  places  them  on  table  at  her  side;  raises 
Nydia  gently,  and  attempts  to  seat  Nydia  on  low  stool  at 
her  side.    Nydia  resists.'] 

Nydia.  I  have  not  yet  discharged  my  office.  [Takes 
letter  of  Gladcus  from  her  hosom.]  This  will  perhaps  ex- 
plain why  he  who  sent  me  chose  so  unworthy  a  messenger  to 
lone. 

[Ione  takes  letter  with  trembling  hand,  which  Nydia  de- 
tects; sighs;  stands  with  folded  arms  and  downcast  look 
before  the  proud  and  stately  Ione.  Submission  —  Ione 
waves  for  attendants  to  withdraw.  Exeunt  attendants. 
Ione  gazes  upon  form  of  Nydia  luith  surprise  and  com- 
passion;  retires  to  left  centre,  opens  and  reads  letter.] 

Ione.  Glaucus  to  lone  sends  more  than  he  dares  to  utter. 
Is  lone  ill?  Thy  slaves  tell  me  "No,"'  and  that  assurance 
comforts  me.  Has  Glaucus  offended  lone  ?  Ah !  that  ques- 
tion I  may  not  ask  from  them.  For  five  days  I  have  been 
banished  from  thy  presence;  thou  hast  banished  also  the 
common  flatterers  that  flock  around  thee.  Canst  thou  con- 
found me  with  them?  It  is  not  possible.  Have  they  slan- 
dered me  to  thee,  lone  ?  Thou  wilt  not  believe  them.  Deign 
to  see  me,  listen  to  me,  and  after  that  exclude  me  if  thou 
wilt.  I  meant  not  so  soon  to  speak,  but  I  love  thee.  Accept 
my  homage  and  my  vows.  One  word  more  —  Think  not 
too  highly  of  the  Egyptian.  Arbaces  is  not  one  to  be 
trusted.  Believe  nothing  that  he  can  say  to  my  disfavor. 
Farewell.  [Kisses  letter,  places  it  in  her  bosom,  turns  to 
Nydia,  who  has  remained  in  the  same  place  and  the  same 
posture.]  Wilt  thou  sit,  my  child,  while  I  write  an  answer 
to  this? 

Ny^dia.  [Coldly.]  You  will  answer  it  then.  The  slave 
that  accompanied  me  will  take  back  your  answer. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  421 

loNE.  Stay  with  me,  Nydia.  Trust  me,  your  service 
shall  be  light.  [Nydia  bows  her  head.^  What  is  your  name, 
fair  girl? 

Xydia.    They  call  me  Xydia. 

loNE.     Your  country? 

Nydia.     The  land  of  Olympus-Thessaly. 

loxE.  [Caressingly.]  Thou  shalt  be  to  me  a  friend. 
Meanwhile,  I  beseech  thee,  do  not  stand.  [Nydia  sits  at 
table.]  There,  now  thou  are  seated,  1  can  leave  thee  for  an 
instant.  [Exit.] 

Nydia.  She  loves  him.  Ah !  what  happiness,  what  bliss 
to  be  ever  by  his  side,  to  hear  his  voice !  And  she  can  see 
him.  Oh,  Glaucus,  three  happy  days  of  unspeakable  de- 
light have  I  known  since  I  passed  thy  threshold;  and  now 
my  heart  tears  itself  from  thee,  and  the  only  sound  it  utters 
bids  me  die. 

Re-enter  Tone  reading  letter 

"  lone  to  Glaucus,  greeting :  Come  to  me,  Glaucus ; 
come  to-morrow.  I  may  have  been  unjust  to  thee,  but  I  will 
tell  thee  at  least  the  fault  that  has  been  imputed  to  thy 
charge.  Henceforth  fear  not  the  Egyptian;  fear  none. 
Thou  sayest  thou  hast  expressed  too  much,  —  alas,  in  these 
hasty  words  I  have  already  done  so.     Farewell." 

Nydia.  [Starting  from  her  seat.]  You  have  written  to 
Glaucus? 

loNE.    I  have. 

Nydia.  And  will  he  thank  the  messenger  who  gives  to 
him  thy  letter?  [Pausing  and  speaJcing  in  a  calmer  to7ie.] 
The  lightest  word  of  coldness  from  thee  will  sadden  him; 
the  liglitest  kindness  will  rejoice.  If  it  be  the  first,  let  the 
slave  take  back  thy  answer.    If  it  be  the  last,  let  me. 

lONE.  [Evasively.]  And  why  wouldst  thou  be  the  bearer 
of  my  letter? 

Nydia.  It  is  so,  then.  Ah !  how  could  it  be  otherwise  ? 
Who  could  be  unkind  to  Glaucus? 

loNE.  [With  reserve.]  My  child,  thou  speakest  warmly. 
Glaucus,  then,  is  amiable  in  thine  eyes? 

Nydia.  Noble  Tone,  Glaucus  has  been  to  me  what  neither 
Fortune  nor  the  gods  have  been  —  a  friend. 

Tone.  [Bending  down  and  hissing  A^ydia.]  Thou  art 
grateful,  and  deservedly  so.  Why  should  T  blush  to  say  tliat 
Glaucus  is  worthy  of  thy  gratitude?     Go,  my  Nydia;  take 


422  SELECTED   READINGS 

to  him  thyself  this  letter;  but  return  again.    Nydia,  I  have 
no  sister;  wilt  thou  be  one  to  me? 

ISTydia.  [Embarrassed,  kissing  Ione's  hand.']  One  boon, 
fair  lone,  may  I  dare  to  ask  it? 

loNE.    Thou  canst  not  ask  what  I  will  not  grant. 

Nydia.  They  tell  me  that  thou  art  beautiful  beyond 
loveliness  of  earth.  Alas,  I  cannot  see  that  which  gladdens 
the  world.  Wilt  thou  suffer  me  then  to  pass  my  hand  over 
thy  face  ?  That  is  my  sole  criterion  of  beauty,  and  I  usually 
guess  aright.  [Without  waiting  for  a  reply  Nydia  passes 
her  hand  over  Ione's  face,  hrotv,  hair,  cheek,  neck,  etc.]  I 
know  now  that  thou  art  beautiful,  and  I  can  picture  thee  to 
my  darkness  henceforth  and  forever. 

[Slow  music.  Exit  ISTydia  with  her  attendant,  left.  Ione 
draws  forth  the  letter  and  kisses  it.  If  no  curtain,  Ione 
slowly  passes  out  —  R.] 

Julia  and  her  slaves 

Scene  2.     [Julia,  in  her  chamber,  surrounded  by  five  or 
six  slaves,  table  containing  mirror,  cosmetics,  perfume, 
paints,  jewels,   combs,  ribbons;    gold  pin   at  feet   of 
Julia  ;  nearby  a  second  table  containing  a  silver  basin, 
an  extinguished  lamp,  a  roll  of  papyrus.    Julia  leans 
indolently  back  on  her  seat,  while  hairdresser  piles  one 
above  another  a  mass  of  small  curls.    Slave  stands  be- 
side hairdresser ;   other  attendants  grouped  about.] 
Hairdresser.  Put  that  pin  more  to  the  right,  —  lower, 
stupid  one.    Now  put  in  the  flowers.    What,  fool !  not  that 
dull  pink;  it  must  be  the  brightest  flowers  that  can  alone 
suit  the  cheek  of  the  young  Julia. 

Julia.  Gently!  [Stamping  foot  violently.]  You  pull 
my  hair  as  if  you  were  plucking  up  a  weed. 

Hairdresser.  [To  slave.]  Dull  thing!  Do  you  not 
know  how  delicate  is  thy  mistress?  Now,  then,  the  ribbon. 
That 's  right.  [Presenting  hand  glass.]  Fair  Julia,  look  in 
the  mirror.  Saw  you  anything  so  lovely  as  yourself?  [A 
slave,  hitherto  idle,  now  arranges  jewels:  earrings,  two  in 
each  ear;  massive  bracelets  of  gold;  chain  to  its  talisman 
cut  in  crystal  attached;  buckle  on  left  shoulder;  girdle  of 
purple  ribbon  wrought  with  gold;  rings  fitted  to  every  joint 
of  the  fingers.  Julia  regards  herself  with  complacent  vanity, 
as  she  reclines  upon  her  seat.] 

Julia.     [To  slave,  in  listless  tone.]    Now  read  to  me  the 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  423 

enamored  couplets  of  Tibullus.  [Slave  takes  papyrus  and 
seats  herself  on  low  stool  beside  Julia,  as  another  slave  ad- 
mits Xydia.] 

Xydia.  [Stopping,  crossing  her  hands  upon  her  hreast.1 
Julia,  I  have  obeyed  your  commands. 

Julia.  You  have  done  well,  flower-girl.  Approach,  — 
you  may  take  a  seat.  [Slave  places  stool  hy  Julia,  and 
Nydia  seats  herself.  Julia,  looking  sharply  at  Nydia,  and 
motioning  attendants  to  withdraw,  speaks  mechanically.^ 
You  serve  the  Neapolitan,  lone? 

Nydia.     I  am  with  her  at  present. 

Julia.    Is  she  as  handsome  as  they  say? 

Nydia.    1  know  not.    How  can  I  judge  ? 

Julia.  Ah !  I  should  have  remembered.  But  thou  hast 
ears,  if  not  eyes.  Do  thy  fellow  slaves  tell  thee  she  is  hand- 
some ? 

Nydia.    They  tell  me  that  she  is  beautiful. 

Julia.     Ahem !  —  Say  they  that  she  is  tall  ? 

Nydia.    Yes. 

Julia.    Why,  so  am  I.    Doth  Glaucus  visit  her  much? 

Nydia.     [Sighing.]     Daily. 

Julia.     Daily,  indeed !     Does  he  find  her  handsome  ? 

Nydia.    I  think  so,  since  they  are  soon  to  be  wedded. 

Julia.  [Turning  pale  and  starting  from  her  couch.  Pause. 
Betrays  e7notion.~\     They  tell  me  thou  art  a  Thessalian? 

Nydia.    And  truly. 

Julia.  Thessaly  is  the  land  of  magic  and  love-philtres. 
Knowest  thou  of  any  love  charm? 

Nydia.    How  should  I?     No,  assuredly  not. 

Julia.  The  worse  for  thee.  I  could  have  given  thee  gold 
enough  to  have  purchased  thy  freedom  hadst  thou  been  more 
wise. 

Nydia.  But  what  can  induce  the  beautiful  and  wealthy 
Julia  to  ask  that  question  of  her  servant?  Has  she  not 
money,  youth,  and  loveliness?  Are  they  not  love-charms 
enough  to  dispense  with  magic? 

Julia.  To  all  but  one  person.  Knowest  thou  no  magi- 
cian who  possesses  the  art  of  which  thou  art  ignorant? 

Nydia.  Yes.  I  have  heard  that  less  than  a  league  from 
the  city,  at  the  base  of  Vesuvius,  there  dwells  a  powerful 
witch.  Her  art  can  bring  thy  lover  to  thy  feet.  Seek  her 
and  mention  to  her  the  name  of  Arbaces.  She  fears  that 
name,  and  will  give  thee  her  most  potent  philtres. 


424  SELECTED   READINGS 

Julia.  My  father  has  invited  him  to  a  banquet  the  day 
following  to-morrow.  I  shall  then  have  the  opportunity  to 
administer  it.  I  will  seek  her  this  very  day.  Nay,  why  not 
this  very  hour? 

Nydia.  {^Anxiously. 1  May  I  visit  thee  afterward  to  learn 
the  result? 

Julia.  Yes,  come  hither  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow,  and 
thou  shalt  know  all.  Stay!  take  this  bracelet  for  the  new 
thought  thou  hast  inspired  me  with. 

Nydia.  [Pushing  bracelet  asideJ]  I  cannot  take  thy 
present,  but  young  as  I  am,  I  can  sympathize  unbought  with 
those  who  love,  and  love  in  vain. 

Julia.  Thou  speakest  like  a  free  woman,  —  and  thou 
shalt  be  free. 

\_Slow  music.  Exit  Nydia  —  L.  —  with  her  attendant.  Cur- 
tain. If  no  curtain  is  used,  let  Julia  exit  —  B.  —  fol- 
lowed hy  all  her  attendants.'] 

[Note:  These  scenes  make  an  effective  and  interesting  study  in 
characterization  and  pantomime.  The  costumes  should  be  simple 
Grecian  ones,  and  the  background  soft  green  curtains.  When  a  classic 
couch  and  stools  are  not  available,  boxes  covered  with  dull  stuff  may 
be  utilized.  lone  should  be  tall  and  fair,  classic  in  style.  The  suc- 
cess of  the  girl  who  plays  Nydia  depends  largely  upon  her  ability  to 
effect  an  appearance  of  blindness.  Julia  should  be  a  brunette,  proud 
and  dictatorial  in  temperament.] 


lONE   AND   GLAUCUS 

From  the  Same 

Scene  :  The  witch's  cavern 

Enter  Glaucus  and  Ione,  accompanied  by  a  slave.    Thunder 

and  lightning 

Glaucus.    Dost  thou  fear? 
Ione.    [Softly.]    Not  with  thee. 

Glaucus.     [Removing  his  cloaTc  and  putting  it  about 
Ione.]     "We  must  find  the  best  shelter  we  can. 
[They  discover  a  cavern  in  which  a  fire  burns,  and  over  it 

a  small  cauldron;    a  rude  lamp  stands  on  a  tall  thin 

column  of  iron;  a  profusion  of  reeds  and  herbs  about. 

An  old  hag  sits  before  the  fire  with  stony  eyes  turned 

upon  them.] 
Glaucus.    It  is  a  dead  thing. 
Ione.    [Clinging  to  Glaucus.]    Nay,  it  stirs. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  425 

Slave.    Oh,  awa}- !    Away !    It  is  the  Witch  of  Vesuvius. 

Witch.     Who  are  ye?    And  what  do  ye  here? 

Glaucus.  We  are  storm-beaten  wanderers  from  the  neigh- 
boring city ;  we  crave  shelter  and  the  comfort  of  your  hearth. 

Witch.  Come  to  the  fire  if  ye  wilL  I  never  welcome 
living  thing  save  the  owl,  the  fox,  the  toad,  and  the  viper; 
so  I  cannot  welcome  ye;  but  come  to  the  fire  without  wel- 
come. 

[Glaucus  relieves  Ioxe  of  her  outer  garments,  places  her 
on  a  log  of  wood,  fans  the  fire;  slave  also  removes  her 
long  palla  and  creeps  timidhj  to  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  hearth.^ 

loNE.    We  disturb  you,  I  fear. 

Witch.  [After  a  pause.]  Tell  me,  are  ye  brother  and 
sister  ? 

lONE.     [Blushing.']     No. 

Witch,    Are  ye  married? 

Glaucus.    Not  so. 

Witch.    Ho!     Lovers!    Ha,  ha,  ha! 

[Pantomime  of  fear  between  Glaucus,  Ione,  and  Slave.] 

Glaucus.     [Sternly.]     Why  dost  thou  laugh,  old  crone? 

Witch.     [Absently.]     Did  I  laugh? 

Glaucus.     [Whispering.]     She  is  in  her  dotage. 

Witch.    Thou  liest. 

Glaucus.    Thou  art  an  uncourteous  welcomer, 

loxE.    Hush,  provoke  her  not,  dear  Glaucus. 

Witch.  I  will  tell  thee  why  I  laughed  when  I  discovered 
ye  were  lovers.  It  was  because  it  is  a  pleasure  to  the  old 
and  withered  to  look  upon  young  hearts  like  yours,  and  to 
know  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  loathe  each  other  — 
loathe,  loathe,  ha-ha-ha! 

loNE.  The  gods  forbid !  Thou  knowest  little  of  love, 
poor  woman,  or  thou  wouldst  know  that  it  never  changes. 

Glaucus.    Hast  thou  dwelt  here  long? 

Witch.    Ah,  yes. 

Glaucus.    It  is  but  a  dread  abode. 

Witch.  Ha,  thou  raay'st  well  say  that.  Hell  is  beneath 
us!  [Pointing  to  earth.]  I  will  tell  thee  a  secret;  the  dim 
things  below  are  preparing  much  for  ye  above  —  you,  the 
young,  the  thoughtless,  and  the  beautiful. 

Glaucus.  Thou  uttcrest  but  evil  words,  ill  becoming  the 
hospital)le.  In  future  I  will  brave  the  tempest  rather  than 
thy  welcome. 


426  SELECTED   READINGS 

Witch.  Thou  wilt  do  well.  None  should  ever  seek  me, 
save  the  wretched. 

Glaucus.    Why  the  wretched  ? 

Witch.  [With  ghastly  grin.l  I  am  the  witch  of  the 
mountain ;  my  trade  is  to  give  hope  to  the  hopeless :  for  the 
crossed  in  love  I  have  philtres;  for  the  avaricious,  promises 
of  treasure;  for  the  malicious,  potions  of  revenge;  for  the 
happy  and  the  good,  I  have  only  what  life  has  —  curses ! 
Trouble  me  no  more. 

[Glaucus  discovers  snake,  seizes  log  and  deals  a  dexterous 
hlow.']  * 

Witch.  [Spi'inging  up,  confronting  Glaucus  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  with  slow,  steady  voice.']  Thou  hast  had  shelter 
under  my  roof  and  warmth  at  my  hearth;  thou  hast  re- 
turned evil  for  good;  thou  hast  smitten  the  thing  that  loved 
me  and  was  mine,  —  now  hear  thy  punishment.  I  curse 
thee :  May  thy  love  be  blasted ;  may  thy  name  be  blackened ; 
may  the  internals  mark  thee;  may  thy  heart  wither  and 
scorch !     And  thou,  —  [Turning  to  Tone.] 

Glaucus.  Hag,  forbear !  Me  thou  hast  cursed,  and  I  com- 
mit myself  to  the  gods.  I  defy  and  scorn  thee;  but  breathe 
one  word  against  yon  maiden,  and  I  will  convert  the  oath  on 
thy  foul  lips  to  the  dying  groan.     Beware ! 

Witch.  [Laughing  wildly.']  I  have  done,  for  in  thy  doom 
is  she  who  loves  thee  accursed.  Glaucus,  thou  art  doomed ! 
[Turns  her  face  and  kneels  beside  the  fire.] 

loNE.  [Terrified.]  Oh,  Glaucus,  what  have  we  done? 
Let  us  hasten  from  this  place.  The  stonn  has  ceased.  Good 
mistress,  forgive  him,  recall  thy  words;  accept  this  peace 
offering.     [Places  purse  on  hag's  lap.] 

Witch.  Away  !  Away !  The  oath  once  woven  the  Fates 
only  can  untie  !    Away  ! 

Glaucus.     [Impatiently.]     Come,  dearest,  come. 

loNE.  [Bursting  into  tears.]  Preserve  us,  0  ye  gods! 
Preserve  my  Glaucus. 

[Arbaces  appears  at  mouth  of  cavern,  pauses,  crosses  the 
stage  with  stealthy  mien.  Witch  starts  upon  seeing 
him.] 

Witch.    Who  art  thou? 

Arbaces.  I  am  he  from  whom  all  cultivators  of  magic 
have  stooped  to  learn. 

*  This  action  should  take  place  at  the  entrance  or  behind  a  screen,  when  the  scene 
is  given  on  a  platform. 


SCENES   AND   DIALOGUES  427 

"Witch.  There  is  but  one  such  man,  —  Arbaces,  the 
Egyptian. 

Arbaces.  Look  again.  [Drawing  aside  his  robe  he  reveals 
a  cincture  seeminghj  of  fire  around  his  waist,  in  the  centre 
an  engraved  plate  which  the  Witch  recognizes,  rises  hastily 
and  throws  herself  at  the  feet  of  Arbaces.] 

Witch.  [In  a  voice  of  deep  humility.']  The  Lord  of  the 
mighty  Girdle!     Vouchsafe  my  homage. 

Arbaces.  Eise,  I  have  need  of  thee.  [Seating  himself 
where  Ione  had  sat,  motions  Witch  to  resume  her  seat.  She 
obeys.]  Thou  sayest  that  thou  art  the  daughter  of  the 
ancient  Etrurian  tribes.  [Witch  bows  her  head.]  Hear  me, 
then,  and  obey.  Thou  art  deeply  skilled  in  the  secrets  of 
deadly  herbs;  thou  knowest  those  which  arrest  life.  Do  I 
overrate  thy  skill? 

Witch.    Mighty  Hermes,  such  lore  is  indeed  mine  own. 

Arbaces.  It  is  well.  There  cometh  to  thee  by  to-morrow's 
starlight  a  vain  maiden,  seeking  of  thine  art  a  love-charm 
to  fascinate  from  another  the  eyes  that  should  utter  but  soft 
tales  to  her  own;  instead  of  thy  philtres,  give  the  maiden 
one  of  thy  most  powerful  poisons.  Let  the  lover  breathe  his 
vows  to  the  Shades. 

Witch.  [Trembling  violently.]  Pardon,  dread  master, 
but  this  I  dare  not.  The  law  is  sharp  and  vigilant,  they 
will  seize,  will  slay  me. 

Arbaces.    For  what  purpose,  then,  thy  herbs  and  potions  ? 

"Witch,  [Hiding  face  in  hands.]  Years  ago  I  was  not 
the  thing  that  I  am  now.  I  loved,  I  fancied  myself 
beloved. 

Arbaces.  [Aside.]  This  foul  thing  has  yet  human 
emotions.  Love  is  fit  only  for  youtli,  age  should  harden  our 
hearts  to  all  things  but  ourselves.  [Pacing  the  cavern.] 
Accursed  be  it,  —  this  insect,  this  Glaucus !  I  tell  thee  by 
Nemesis,  he  must  die. 

Witch.  [Glaring  fiercely.]  Glaucus,  saidst  thou,  mighty 
master? 

Arbaces.  Ay,  so  he  is  called,  but  what  matters  the  name? 
Let  it  not  be  heard  as  that  of  a  living  man  three  days  from 
this  date. 

Witch.  Hear  me !  I  am  thy  thing,  thy  slave !  spare  me ! 
If  I  give  to  the  maiden  thou  speakest  of  that  which  would 
destroy  the  life  of  Glaucus,  F  shall  surely  be  detected;  if, 
instead,  I  give  that  which  shall  blast  the  brain,  and  make 


428  SELECTED   READINGS 

him  an  abject,  raving,  benighted  thing,  will  not  thy  venge- 
ance be  equally  sated,  thy  object  equally  attained? 

Arbaces.  0,  witch,  no  longer  the  servant,  but  the  sister, 
the  equal  of  Arbaces,  how  much  brighter  is  woman's  wit, 
even  in  vengeance,  than  ours !  Thou  shalt  have  twenty 
years'  longer  date  for  this.  [Casting  heavy  purse  on  floor.'] 
Farewell;  fail  not,  outwateh  the  stars  in  concocting  thy 
beverage.  To-morrow  night  we  meet  again. 
[Witch  follows  his  steps  to  entrance,  gazes  after  him;  moon- 
light streams  upon  her  form  and  face.  She  slowly  re- 
enters;   droningly  picTcs  up  purse.] 

Witch.    I  love  to  look  at  you,  for  when  I  see  you  I  feel 
that  I  am  indeed  of  power.    Twenty  years'  longer  of  life ! 

Edward  Bulwer-Lytton. 
Arranged  by  Anna  Morgan. 


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